:*'?ip 


f  (^ 


SOUTHERN  BRANCH. 

-UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA, 

LIBRARY, 

ii-Of  ANGELES.  CALIF. 


RANDOM  IMEMORIES 


RANDOM  MEMORIES 


BY 
ERNEST  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
1922 


50977 


COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY  HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
ALL  EUGHTS  RBSESVEO 


Cbe  Slibereit)e  ^ttsi 

CAMBRIDGE    •    MASSACHUSETTS 
PRINTED  IN  THE  U.  S.  A. 


MD 

PREFACE 

This  is  not  meant  for  a  serious  autobiography.    In- 
deed, those  who  know  me  know  that  I  am  seldom 
serious. 
I  have  thought  that  there  ought  to  be  some  record 
■^     of  the  anecdotes  connected  with  those  early  friends  of 
V     my  father's;  also  some  of  the  bons  mots  of  that  period 
'^^'^  which  might  otherwise  be  lost.    I  have  added  some 
experiences  as  an  art  student  as  far  back  as  the  six- 
ties of  the  last  century,  and  some  art  criticisms,  nec- 
^      essarily  crude,  from  their  brevity.  In  addition  I  have 
given  brief  notes  of  travel  in  the  past. 

There  are  so  many  tragedies  and  injustices  in  this 

world  that  unless  we  smile  and  keep  on  smiling,  we 

^     are  liable  to  be  overwhelmed  by  despair.  I  have  there- 

"^     fore  tried  to  look  on  life  on  its  comic  side,  as  far  as 

v     possible. 

Any  one  who  has  had  the  misfortune  to  be  the  son 
of  an  illustrious  parent  knows  how  hard  it  is  to  be 
taken  seriously  by  people.  He  remains,  with  them, 
always  the  son  of  his  father.  They  generally  try  to 
make  matters  better  by  reminding  him  that  it  is  a 
well-known  fact  that  genius  skips  one  generation. 


vl  PREFACE 

Then  why  try  to  be  serious  ? 

There  are  some  solemn-faced  people  who  cannot 
enjoy  a  joke,  and  who  take  as  an  Insult  to  their  dig- 
nity any  attempted  pleasantry.  They  are  the  people 
of  superior  minds,  the  "  Holier-than-Thous "  who 
formed  the  bulk  of  the  Mugwump  Party.  Later, 
as  the  "best  thinkers,"  they  opposed  the  war  with 
Spain  on  the  ground  that  we  should  not  meddle  in 
other  people^s  aifairs.  Now,  strange  to  say,  these 
"  best  thinkers  "  want  us  to  join  the  League  of  Nations, 
because  it  is  our  duty  to  mix  in  the  aifairs  of  all  the 
world !  They  would  like  America  to  be  like  the  Irish- 
man, who,  seeing  a  street  fight  going  on,  wanted  to 
know  if  it  was  a  private  fight,  or  if  anybody  could 
come  in.  The  funny  part  is,  that  the  "best  minds" 
are  almost  always  wrong,  while  the  common  peo- 
ple are  almost  always  right.  The  "  best  minds  of 
the  period"  made  fun  of  Lincoln,  while  the  com- 
mon people  believed  in  him  and  trusted  him.  The 
same  might  be  said  of  Roosevelt,  the  most  beloved 
and  popular  man  of  his  generation.  The  "best 
minds"  reviled  him  while  he  lived,  but  take  another 
view  now. 

For  these  "best  minds"  this  book  is  not  written. 
They  would  find  it  hopelessly  frivolous.  My  only 
hope  is  that  some  congenial  spirit  may  get  a  few  hours' 
amusement  out  of  it.  Let  us,  then,  keep  a  cheerful 


PREFACE 


Vll 


countenance  and  do  our  little  mite  to  uphold  the 
right,  as  we  see  the  right. 

Those  likewise  serve,  who  do  their  best 

To  Champion  the  Right. 

Each  smallest  star 

In  space  so  far 

Lends  something  to  the  night. 

E.  W.  L. 

October^  19  21 


NOTE 

I  WISH  especially  to  thank  Mr.  William  Roscoe 
Thayer  for  his  kindness  in  helping  to  get  this  little 
book  published;  also  the  editors  of  the  Atlantic 
Monthly  for  their  courtesy  in  allowing  the  republica- 
tion of  the  article  on  "Couture,"  and  Curtis  &  Cam- 
eron for  permission  to  reproduce  a  photograph  of  one 
of  my  paintings. 

E.  W.  L. 

October,  1921 


CONTENTS 

I.  Craigie  House  i 

II.  My  Father's  Friends  20 

III.  Education  and  Other  Things  48 

IV.  War  68 
V.  Quips  and  Cranks  81 

VI.  Art  96 

VII.  Italian  Art  129 

VIII.  A  Walking  Tour  in  the  Alps  142 

IX.  Life  at  Home  and  Abroad  158 

X.  Reminiscences  OF  Thomas  Couture  177 

XI.  Winter  in  Siena  204 

XII.  Egypt  221 

XIII.  Professional  Fortunes  261 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Henry  WadSWORTH  Longfellow  Photogravure  Frontispiece 

From  the  portrait  painted  by  Ernest  W.  Longfellow  in  1876 

Craigie  House  2 

From  a  sketch  by  Ernest  W.  Longfellow 

E.  W.  L.,  June,  1861  48 

Thomas  Gold  Appleton  64 

Smoker:  A  Portrait  Study  (Alexander  Longfellow)   116 

From  a  painting  by  Ernest  W.  Longfellow 

Frederic  Crowninshield  and  E.  W.  L.  on  Walking- 
Trip  142 

Thomas  Couture  188 

From  an  etching  by  L.  Massard 

Stone  Pines  206 

From  a  painting  by  Ernest  W.  Longfellow 

Sketches  made  on  the  Nile  238 

Ernest  W.  Longfellow  in  his  Studio  262 


RANDOM  MEMORIES 

• 

CHAPTER  I 

CRAIGIE  HOUSE 

Under  date  of  Sunday,  November  23,  1845,  may  be 
found  the  following  entry  in  my  father's  journal: 
"This  morning,  between  two  and  three  o'clock,  came 
into  the  village  of  Cambridge  a  little  wandering  mu- 
sician, with  a  remarkable  talent  for  imitating  with  his 
mouth  the  penny  trumpet  and  the  wooden  dog." 
And  later,  under  date  of  December  7,  "We  drank  the 
baby's  health  under  the  title  of  the  Chevalier  New- 
kom  on  account  of  his  being  a  newcomer  and  a  great 
musician  in  his  way." 

Now  I  ask,  Is  it  quite  fair  to  be  introduced  to  the 
world  in  this  way.**  Give  a  dog,  even  a  wooden  dog,  a 
bad  name  and  hang  him,  much  more  a  chevalier  of 
misplaced  industry  in  the  way  of  performing  on  penny 
trumpets.  However,  my  excuse  for  mentioning  this 
unpropitious  advent  is  that  it  illustrates  the  vein  of 
gentle  humor  that  was  characteristic  of  my  father. 
He  was  fond  of  making  harmless  puns  and  small  witti- 
cisms when  in  the  bosom  of  his  family  and  in  inter- 
course with  intimate  friends,  which  those  who  knew 


2  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

him  only  through  his  writings  might  not  suspect.  Be- 
sides, even  the  pipings  of  a  penny  trumpet  may  some- 
times suggest  the  theme  of  a  grand  symphony,  and  so 
these  jottings  from  a  rather  uncertain  and  treacherous 
memory  may  serve  to  reconstruct  some  of  those  scenes 
that  took  place  under  my  father's  roof,  where  many 
interesting  events  took  place,  and  many  illustrious 
people  came  and  went. 

The  old  Craigie  house,  as  it  was  called,  where  I  was 
bom  ^s  recorded  above,  and  where  my  father  lived 
almost  from  the  time  he  was  appointed  Professor  of 
Belles-Lettres  at  Harvard  till  his  death  in  1882,  is  so 
well  known  as  hardly  to  need  a  description.  It  was 
called  the  Craigie  house  after  the  widow  Craigie,  who 
was  living  in  it  at  the  time  of  my  father's  advent  in 
Cambridge,  and  who  at  first  refused  to  take  him  as  a 
lodger,  thinking  him  so  young  that  he  must  be  an 
undergraduate  trying  to  impose  on  her  by  calling 
himself  a  professor.  The  house,  however,  was  built 
by  the  Vassals  in  about  1759  at  about  the  same  time 
as  the  other  Vassal  houses,  one  of  which,  known  as 
the  Bachelder  house,  was  nearly  opposite.  Some- 
what farther  up  the  street  was  a  house  known  as 
the  Riedesel  house,  from  having  been  occupied  for  a 
time  by  the  Baron  Riedesel  and  his  charming  wife, 
when,  with  other  Hessian  officers,  they  were  held 
prisoners  there,  after  Burgoyne's  surrender.   On  one 


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CRAIGIE  HOUSE  3 

of  the  window-panes  of  this  house  was  to  be  seen  the 
name  of  the  Baroness  Riedesel,  scratched  there  with 
her  diamond  ring  while  she  was  a  prisoner. 

The  Craigie  house  originally  was  probably  a  square 
timber  house,  with  bricks  between  the  framing  for 
greater  warmth,  —  I  believe  the  bricks  were  brought 
from  England,  —  built  in  what  is  now  called  the  Co- 
lonial style  of  architecture,  with  huge,  square  beams 
supporting  the  double-hipped  roof,  sheathed  on  the 
outside  with  clapboards,  and  with  wooden  pilasters  at 
the  corners  and  on  either  side  of  the  front  door.  It 
has  always,  as  long  as  I  can  remember,  been  painted  a 
straw  color  with  white  trimmings  and  green  blinds. 

It  was  placed  high  on  a  double  bank  well  back  from 
the  street,  with  a  straight  path  leading  to  it,  and  three 
pairs  of  stone  steps,  giving  it  a  commanding  aspect. 
The  balustrade  at  the  top  of  the  first  pair  of  steps  was 
a  late  addition,  added  at  my  suggestion  by  my  father 
in  1869.  To  show  how  false  even  the  memory  of  great 
men  may  be,  Mr.  Lowell  always  insisted  he  remem- 
bered that  balustrade  when  he  was  a  boy. 

The  house,  as  originally  built,  contained  four  rooms 
of  equal  size  on  each  floor.  There  was  a  central  hall 
with  stairs  leading  up  from  either  side,  and  meeting  in 
the  middle,  only  to  part  to  reach  the  front  and  back 
chambers  respectively.  At  this  junction  was  a  parti- 
tion, with  door  and  large  window  with  rounded  top 


4  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

giving  light  to  the  back  hall.  These  stairs  were 
adorned  with  the  beautiful  twisted  balustrades  of 
the  period,  and  up  their  creaking  treads  must  have 
passed  many  a  time  the  weary  step  of  the  Father  of 
his  Country  in  those  anxious  days  of  the  siege  of 
Boston  when  the  house  was  occupied  by  him  as  his 
headquarters. 

The  Vassals  were  Tories  and  had  fled  to  Nova 
Scotia  at  the  beginning  of  hostilities.  Hence  their 
house  was  confiscated  and  assigned  to  Washington, 
as  the  finest  residence  in  the  neighborhood.  From 
the  front  of  the  house  the  view  extended  to  the 
Brighton  meadows  and  hills  beyond,  with  the  Charles, 
in  its  windings  making  the  letter  "S"  alluded  to  In 
my  father's  sonnet  to  Charles  Sumner.  It  was  a  tidal 
river  as  far  as  Watertown,  and  with  strong  easterly 
winds  or  exceptionally  high  tides,  the  meadows  were 
entirely  flooded,  making  a  beautiful  lake,  with  only 
the  haycocks  of  marsh  grass  showing  above  the  wa- 
ters. In  those  early  days  great  schooners  were  wont 
to  pass  up  and  down  with  their  freight  of  coal  or  lum- 
ber, and  the  scent  of  the  marsh  grass  was  wafted 
pleasantly  to  one's  nostrils.  Later,  the  river  was 
polluted  by  the  gasworks  on  its  border,  and  the  sail- 
ing vessels  gave  place  to  coal  barges  towed  by  fussy 
tugs.  Still,  my  father  always  loved  that  view,  and 
often  have  I  seen  him  come  out  on  his  front  steps. 


CRAIGIE  HOUSE  5 

bareheaded,  merely  to  gaze  at  it,  either  in  its  noonday- 
haze  or  lit  up  with  the  splendors  of  sunset.  It  was  his 
hope  that  it  would  never  be  obstructed,  and  it  was 
this  wish  that  led  his  children  to  preserve  it  as  best 
they  might,  by  giving  the  land  opposite  the  house  to 
the  city  of  Cambridge  to  be  made  into  a  park.  The 
assessors  immediately  raised  the  valuations  on  the 
adjoining  land,  on  the  plea  that  now  we  lived  on  a 
park. 

Originally,  two  stately  lines  of  elms  led  up  on  either 
hand  to  the  front  door,  but  in  old  Mrs.  Craigie's  day 
she  would  not  have  them  protected  from  the  canker- 
worms,  because,  as  she  used  to  say,  the  canker-worms 
had  as  good  a  right  to  live  as  the  elms.  Consequently 
all  but  the  one  on  the  right  of  the  house  eventually 
died,  and  the  ones  set  out  to  replace  them  never 
seemed  to  thrive.  My  father  took  great  pains  with 
these  trees  and  did  all  he  could  to  protect  them  from 
this  Cambridge  pest.  He  insisted  on  the  gardener  see- 
ing to  It  that  the  trees  were  properly  protected  by  tar, 
and  that  the  tar  should  be  kept  fresh,  especially  on  the 
warm  days  In  winter,  when  the  moths  were  wont  to 
climb  the  trees  to  lay  their  eggs.  He  was  explaining 
about  this  habit  of  the  female  to  an  Irish  gardener, 
when  he  was  met  with  the  astonishing  rejoinder, 
"Sure,  your  honor,  don't  ye  know  that  the  faymale 
canker-woram  dies  before  it  is  boran!"  Which  would 


6  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

seem  to  be  a  more  effective  way  of  disposing  of  the 
worms  than  by  tar. 

Cambridge,  as  I  first  remember  It,  was  little  more 
than  a  village,  with  Harvard  College  as  the  centre; 
now  it  has  become  a  large  city.  In  those  old  days 
Harvard  Square  had  a  large  and  beautiful  elm  in  its 
centre,  flanked  by  the  village  pump  and  the  hay 
scales.  Herds  of  cattle  and  flocks  of  sheep  would  pass 
through  on  market  days  on  their  way  to  Brighton. 
An  omnibus,  known  as  the  "Hourly,"  used  to  ply  once 
an  hour  between  Cambridge  and  Boston  and  was  the 
only  public  conveyance.  It  was  a  large  bus  drawn  by 
four  horses,  and  was  so  accommodating  that  it  would 
go  out  of  its  way  to  pick  up  passengers  in  any  part  of 
Cambridge,  if  duly  notified.  It  was  supposed  to  start, 
however,  from  Harvard  Square  in  Cambridge  on  the 
hour,  and  from  in  front  of  the  old  Brattle  Street 
Church  in  Boston  on  the  half-hour,  if  I  remember 
right.  It  was  driven  by  a  man  named  Morse,  who  in 
his  old  age  lost  his  mind  and  used  to  sit  in  front  of  his 
fireplace  with  strings  attached  to  his  tea-kettle  and 
think  he  was  still  driving  his  "bus."  Some  wit,  in 
alluding  to  him,  said,  "Mors  communis  omnibus." 
It  is  also  related  that  on  one  occasion  in  the  winter, 
he  had  as  a  passenger  on  the  box  seat  with  him  a 
student  who  was  slightly  intoxicated,  and  who,  on  a 
sudden  lurch  of  the  bus,  fell  off  into  a  snowdrift. 


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i 


CRAIGIE  HOUSE  7 

When  Morse  pulled  up,  the  student  calmly  remarked, 
"  Hello,  Morse,  upset,  have  n't  you  ? "  On  being  as- 
sured to  the  contrary,  he  exclaimed,  "Oh,  if  I  had 
known  that,  I  would  n't  have  jumped  off."  To  collect 
the  fares,  a  small  boy  stood  on  the  step  at  the  rear, 
and  one  boy,  who  had  acquired  a  most  remarkable 
pepper-and-salt  coat,  excited  my  brother's  admira- 
tion particularly,  and  nothing  would  do  but  he  must 
be  allowed  to  go  into  Boston  and  purchase  a  similar 
coat.  I  believe  his  highest  ambition  at  that  time  was 
one  day  to  be  allowed  to  become  the  bus  boy, 

Boston  in  those  days  was  also  very  different  from 
what  it  is  to-day.  The  old  Brattle  Street  Church 
still  had  embedded  in  its  front  the  round  cannon-ball 
that  had  been  fired  from  the  American  lines.  The 
funny  old  group  of  buildings  still  blocked  up  the 
centre  of  Scollay  Square,  where  now  the  subway 
stations  reign  supreme.  The  beautiful  old  Hancock 
house,  which  should  never  have  been  taken  down,  was 
still  standing.  The  Back  Bay  came  up  to  Charles 
Street  at  the  foot  of  the  Common,  with  rope-walks 
stretching  out  into  it.  The  Milldam  was  really  a  mill- 
dam,  and  was  what  is  now  the  lower  part  of  Beacon 
Street.  There  were  very  few  houses  then  on  Beacon 
Street  below  Charles,  and  I  remember  perfectly  when 
all  those  houses  beyond  what  is  now  Arlington  Street 
were  built,  and  it  was  considered  very  far  out. 


8  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

What  Is  now  the  PubHc  Garden  and  the  whole  sec- 
tion beyond  was  filled  in  much  later,  mostly,  we  used 
to  say,  with  tin  cans  and  hoopskirts.  Fashionable 
people  still  lived  in  Summer  and  Tremont  Streets  as 
well  as  on  Beacon  Hill.  My  grandfather,  Mr.  Nathan 
Appleton,  lived  at  39  Beacon  Street,  in  one  of  those 
beautiful  old  bow-front  houses,  with  purple  panes  of 
glass  brought  from  Holland,  that  were  the  pride  of 
Bostonians  of  those  days.  We  always  drove  in  to  dine 
on  Saturdays,  dinner  being  then  at  the  fashionable 
hour  of  two  o'clock.  We  also  always  dined  there  on 
Thanksgiving  Day,  which  I  remember  as  a  great  event 
for  us  children,  as  naturally  we  ate  too  much  and  re- 
pented ruefully  afterwards.  Christmas  was  an  event 
of  much  excitement,  as  my  grandfather  always  had  a 
Christmas  tree,  with  a  large  party  of  all  the  relations 
and  friends,  and  many  beautiful  presents  for  every- 
body. Farther  up  Beacon  Street  lived  Uncle  Sam  Ap- 
pleton and  his  wife,  —  Aunt  Sam  as  we  called  her,  — 
a  dear  old  lady,  who  represented  my  idea  of  a  French 
Marquise,  with  her  side  curls  and  her  frilled  caps. 
She  always  wore  white  gloves,  night  and  day,  to  keep 
her  hands  white,  but  as  nobody  ever  saw  her  without 
her  gloves,  I  never  could  see  what  good  it  did.  Their 
house  was  even  finer  than  my  grandfather's,  with  a 
circular  central  hall,  with  a  fountain  in  the  middle, 
and,  supported  by  marble  columns,  a  gallery  connect- 


CRAIGIE  HOUSE  9 

ing  the  bedrooms  running  round  it.  This  house  was 
very  broad  and  was  afterwards  torn  down  to  make 
room  for  two  modern  houses. 

Those  were  the  days  when  people  spoke  of  the 
Ticknors  with  bated  breath,  and  Mrs.  Harrison  Gray 
Otis  received  on  Washington's  Birthday  sitting  in 
state  with  her  turban  on.  Everett  and  Winthrop 
were  the  awe-inspiring  orators  of  great  occasions. 
One  of  the  anecdotes  of  the  former  is  to  the  effect  that 
on  some  occasion,  either  the  laying  of  the  corner- 
stone of  Bunker  Hill  Monument  or  some  subsequent 
oration  on  Bunker  Hill  Day,  Mr.  Everett,  who  never 
neglected  any  possible  point  that  might  be  made, 
carefully  sought  out  an  old  survivor  of  the  Battle  of 
Bunker  Hill,  and  invited  him  to  sit  on  the  platform 
-during  the  oration.  He  also  requested  him  to  rise  at  a 
certain  passage  where  he  spoke  of  the  few  remaining 
soldiers  who  had  taken  part  in  the  action.  Much  to 
the  old  veteran's  astonishment,  however,  when  Mr. 
Everett  had  come  to  that  part  of  the  address  and  he 
had  risen  according  to  instruction,  Mr.  Everett  sud- 
denly turned  upon  him  and  in  thunder  tones  ex- 
claimed, "Sit  down!  Sit  down!  It  is  fitter  that  we 
should  stand";  whereupon  the  old  man,  much  per- 
plexed, sat  down,  but  the  point  had  been  made  amid 
great  applause. 

Mr.  Winthrop  was,  as  I  remember  him,  rather  a 


10  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

pompous  old  gentleman  with  spectacles,  and  with  the 
grand  manner  of  the  past  generation.  He  had  the 
habit  of  greeting  an  acquaintance  with  a  lofty  air,  his 
hand  raised,  which  was  allowed  to  descend  to  grasp 
that  of  his  friend  in  rather  a  condescending  manner. 
On  meeting  Dr.  Holmes  one  day,  the  latter,  who  was  a 
small  man,  and  as  quick  in  his  motions  as  the  other 
was  slow,  suddenly  slid  his  hand  in  underneath  and 
said,  "Ah!  Winthrop,  I  come  the  undercut."  It  is 
hard  to  indicate  in  print  the  drollery  of  this  without 
having  known  and  seen  the  contrast  between  the 
two  men. 

It  was  my  grandfather  who  bought  the  Craigie 
house  and  presented  it  to  the  newly  wedded  couple 
when  my  father  married  my  mother,  his  second  daugh- 
ter, who  it  may  be  remembered  figured  as  the  heroine 
of  one  of  my  father's  prose  works  —  "Hyperion." 
The  oldest  daughter  married  a  son  of  Sir  James  Mack- 
intosh, the  historian,  who  was  at  one  time  Governor 
of  some  of  the  West  Indian  islands,  but  they  mostly 
lived  in  London. 

At  the  time  my  father  and  mother  took  up  their 
abode  in  the  Craigie  house  there  were  also  living  in 
part  of  the  house  Mr.  Worcester,  the  lexicographer, 
and  his  wife,  whose  lease  had  not  expired.  They  soon 
moved  out,  however,  and  lived  in  a  house  that  Mr. 
Worcester  built  on  an  adjoining  estate.  There  was  a 


CRAIGIE  HOUSE  ii 

pond  on  the  line  of  separation  between  the  two  es- 
tates, and  on  that  pond  we  boys  sailed  boats  in  summer 
and  skated  in  winter,  and  tumbled  in  and  got  wet, 
impartially,  summer  and  winter.  Mr.  Worcester,  as 
I  remember  him,  was  a  widower  and  rather  a  crusty 
old  gentleman,  who  was  given  to  complaining  to  my 
father  of  our  depredations  on  his  property,  not  without 
reason,  I  am  free  to  confess.  A  high  board  fence  sep- 
arated the  adjoining  lands  except  at  the  pond,  and 
on  that  fence  we  used  to  perch,  and  when  Mr.  Worces- 
ter's gardener's  back  was  turned,  we  would  swoop 
down  upon  his  apples  or  pears,  and,  regaining  the 
fence,  would  make  good  our  escape.  Although  we  had 
plenty  of  apples  and  pears  in  our  own  garden,  they 
never  tasted  so  good  as  those  acquired  with  a  sense  of 
danger.  In  the  winter,  too,  on  the  ice,  I  am  afraid  we 
made  an  awful  racket,  which  must  have  disturbed  the 
worthy  Mr.  Worcester  in  his  search  for  unknown 
words  and  their  meanings  to  put  into  his  "Dictionary 
of  the  English  Language";  for  he  used  to  issue  forth 
in  great  wrath  and  request  us  to  leave  his  part  of  the 
pond,  which  we  proceeded  to  do  with  great  speed  till 
he  had  retired,  when  of  course  we  came  back  again, 
as  only  a  very  small  part  of  the  pond  was  on  our  land. 
The  pond  has  since  been  filled  up,  and  no  longer 
exists. 

At  that  time  the  Craigie  estate  was  quite  large  and 


12  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

extended  up  to  the  Harvard  Observatory.  Craigie 
and  Buckingham  Streets  had  not  been  laid  out,  but 
were  cut  through  and  built  upon  well  within  my  mem- 
ory. Sparks  Street  was  a  green  lane  with  a  gate  at 
the  bottom  on  Brattle  Street,  which  goes  to  show  what 
a  country  village  Cambridge  was  then.  We  had  in  our 
house  neither  gas  nor  water,  and  I  well  remember  the 
excitement  of  us  children  when  the  floors  were  pulled 
up  to  put  in  the  pipes.  Mr.  Lowell  has  written  such  a 
charming  description  of  Cambridge  in  the  early  days 
that  it  leaves  little  for  others  to  say. 

My  father,  as  I  first  remember  him,  was  a  man 
somewhat  over  forty:  clean-shaven  except  for  small 
mutton-chop  side  whiskers,  turning  grey;  hair  rather 
long,  parted  in  the  middle  behind,  and  brought  for- 
ward over  the  ears  in  what  would  now  be  considered 
a  rather  tousled  condition,  but  was  the  fashion  of  that 
time.  He  had  rather  a  large  mouth,  but  finely  cut,  a 
slightly  aquiline  nose,  broad  and  fine  forehead,  and 
beautiful  blue  eyes.  His  whole  expression  was  benign 
and  sweet,  and  did  not  belie  his  character,  which  was 
the  most  perfect  imaginable.  He  had  a  well-set-up 
figure  of  middle  height,  with  rather  square  shoulders, 
and  a  jauntiness  in  his  walk  and  bearing  which  gave 
rise  to  the  lines  in  a  college  doggerel  of  the  period. 

With  his  hat  on  one  whisker,  and  an  air  that  says,  'Go  it, 
You  have  here  the  great  American  poet.'" 


CRAIGIE  HOUSE  13 

In  the  days  when  professors  and  even  other  men  in 
Boston  and  Cambridge  were  rather  slovenly  in  their 
appearance,  he  was  always  very  carefully  dressed,  and 
indeed  was  considered  rather  a  dandy,  and  I  believe 
Mrs.  Craigie,  when  he  first  came  to  board  with  her, 
thought  his  gloves  of  much  too  light  a  shade  to  be 
worn  by  a  strictly  virtuous  man.  An  English  govern- 
ess, however,  who  was  employed  to  teach  my  sisters, 
was  so  impressed  by  the  beauty  of  his  character  that, 
although  a  very  strict  Episcopalian,  she  declared  that, 
after  knowing  my  father,  it  was  impossible  for  her 
ever  again  to  recite  the  Athanasian  Creed,  as  she 
could  not  believe  that  even  though  a  Unitarian  he 
would  be  condemned  to  eternal  damnation. 

My  father  was  very  methodical  and  careful  in  his 
ways.  He  believed  in  having  a  place  for  everything 
and  everything  in  its  place,  and  kept  with  the  great- 
est care  anything  that  could  be  useful.  He  always 
carefully  folded  up  and  put  away,  in  a  drawer  de- 
voted to  the  purpose,  the  wrapping  paper  that  came 
on  bundles,  and  untied,  never  cut,  the  string,  and  put 
that  away  in  another  drawer,  thus  having  them  both 
on  hand  when  needed.  The  paper  that  he  wrote  his 
manuscripts  on  was  of  a  certain  kind  called  cartridge 
paper,  and  cut  to  a  certain  size  and  kept  in  large  quan- 
tities ready  for  use. 

He  wrote  most  of  his  manuscripts  on  this  paper 


14  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

with  pencil  (having  always  several  ready  sharpened) 
in  a  beautifully  clear  hand,  very  evenly  spaced  and 
with  few  erasures  or  corrections.  In  the  early  days  he 
wrote  standing  at  a  desk  by  one  of  the  front  windows 
of  his  study,  where  he  could  look  out  on  the  Charles 
in  its  windings.  Later  he  sat  at  a  round  table  in  the 
centre  of  the  room.  For  his  correspondence  he  used  at 
first  quill  pens  which  he  mended  with  great  care  him- 
self, and  afterwards  rubber  or  stub  pens.  He  was  very 
conscientious  about  answering  his  large  correspond- 
ence himself,  and  refused  to  have  a  secretary  till  the 
last  few  years  of  his  life,  sacrificing  a  great  deal  of  his 
valuable  time  to  answering  trivial  demands  upon  his 
kindness. 

It  was  always  to  my  father  that  we  went  in  our 
childish  troubles.  He  was  very  skilful  in  putting  on  a 
bandage  for  a  sore  throat  or  doing  up  a  cut  finger, 
keeping  at  hand  little  bandages  already  rolled  up  for 
immediate  use.  He  also  doctored  us  with  homoeo- 
pathic remedies  for  our  small  ailments,  but  of  course 
calling  in  a  regular  doctor  for  anything  serious.  I  re- 
member, however,  one  occasion  when  I  had  a  high 
fever,  which  the  doctor  seemed  unable  to  subdue, 
that  my  father,  who  had  once  been  at  a  German 
water  cure,  did  me  up  himself  in  wet  sheets  with  many 
blankets  over  me,  till  I  was  in  a  profuse  perspiration 
and  the  fever  conquered. 


CRAIGIE  HOUSE  15 

He  was  always  the  most  kind  and  indulgent  of 
parents,  and  one  of  the  few  things  I  can  look  back 
upon  with  satisfaction  in  my  life  is  the  fact  that  I 
never  caused  him  any  worry  or  anxiety  on  my  account, 
and  that  till  the  day  of  his  death  we  never  had  the 
slightest  misunderstanding,  but  were  always  on  the 
most  intimate  and  affectionate  terms. 

My  father  and  mother  had  six  children  in  all :  my 
brother  Charles,  who  was  born  within  a  year  of  their 
marriage  and  was  a  year  and  a  half  my  senior;  a  sister, 
who  was  born  two  or  three  years  after  me,  but  lived 
only  a  short  time ;  and  my  three  sisters  who  figure  in 
the  "Children's  Hour"  — 

'   .         "Grave  Alice,  and  laughing  Allegra, 
And  Edith  with  golden  hair" 

—  the  latter  of  whom  came  really  between  the  other 
two. 

It  was  while  walking  up  and  down  with  his  second 
daughter,  then  a  baby  in  his  arms,  that  my  father 
composed  and  sang  to  her  the  well-known  lines: 

"There  was  a  little  girl. 

Who  had  a  little  curl, 
Right  in  the  middle  of  her  forehead. 

When  she  was  good, 

She  was  very  good  indeed, 
But  when  she  was  bad  she  was  horrid.** 


i6  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

Many  people  think  this  a  Mother-Goose  rhyme,  but 
this  is  the  true  version  and  history. 

It  may  interest  people  to  know  that  the  "Verses  to 
a  Child"  were  written  about  my  brother  Charles, 
while  "The  Castle-Builder,"  published  many  years 
later,  related  to  me : 

"A  gentle  boy,  with  soft  and  silken  locks, 
A  dreamy  boy,  with  brown  and  tender  eyes, 
A  castle-builder,  with  his  wooden  blocks. 
And  towers  that  touch  imaginary  skies." 

We  were  all  born  in  the  old  Craigie  house  and  there 
passed  our  childhood,  with  summers  passed  mostly 
at  Nahant,  where  we  boarded  first  at  Mrs.  Johnson's 
in  the  village,  next  to  the  general  store  and  post-office, 
and  later  lived  in  the  cottage  that  my  father  bought 
on  the  south  side  of  Nahant.  Mrs.  Johnson  was  a 
typical  New  England  woman,  tall  and  bony,  but  an 
excellent  cook,  and  her  popovers  and  sponge  cake 
were  renowned. 

In  those  early  days  we  kept  a  carriage  and  a  pair  of 
dapple-grey  horses,  and  always  drove  down  through 
Maiden  and  Lynn  when  we  moved  to  Nahant.  That 
moving,  which  could  not  take  place  till  the  college 
term  was  over,  was  a  great  excitement  to  us  children, 
and  I  can  remember  now  how  delicious  the  first  scent 
of  the  seaweed  was,  as  we  crossed  Lynn  beach  and  got 
the  first  breath  of  the  sea. 


CRAIGIE  HOUSE  17 

We  all  loved  the  life  at  Nahant,  except,  I  think, 
my  father,  who,  though  he  enjoyed  the  rest  after  his 
long  winter  work  in  college,  missed  his  books  and  his 
delightful  study  in  Cambridge.  But  it  was  good  for 
us  children,  and  he  was  content,  although,  as  he  used 
to  say,  it  was  impossible  to  do  any  work  there  as  the 
air  seemed  to  have  a  somnolent  and  deadening  effect 
upon  his  muse.  And  it  was  not  till  the  autumn  came 
again  that  his  inspiration  returned,  but  with  it,  alas, 
the  drudgery  of  his  college  work  which  took  up  so 
much  of  his  time. 

My  father  had  charge  in  the  college  of  the  Depart- 
ment of  Modern  Languages,  with  tutors  under  him  to 
do  a  great  deal  of  the  direct  teaching.  His  lecture- 
room  was  in  the  right-hand  entry  of  University  Hall 
in  what  is  now,  I  believe,  the  Faculty  Room.  At  that 
time  the  chapel  services  were  held  in  the  central  hall 
of  "University,"  the  students  having  their  seats  on 
the  floor  of  the  hall,  while  the  professors  and  their 
families  had  pews  in  the  large  gallery  at  one  end,  and 
the  choir  in  the  small  one  at  the  other.  Professors,  as 
well  as  students,  were  expected  to  attend  prayers  at 
eight  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  divine  service, 
morning  and  afternoon,  on  Sundays.  Fortunately, 
my  father  lived  just  beyond  the  half-mile  limit  and 
so  was  relieved  of  the  necessity  of  prayers,  but  the 
two  services  a  day  on  Sunday  had  to  be  endured,  and 


1 8  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

even  we  children  often  went  in  the  afternoon  as  well 
as  the  morning;  and  how  very  long  and  sleepy  those 
afternoon  services  seemed!  The  college  was  then 
strictly  Unitarian,  but  students  of  other  denomina- 
tions were  allowed  to  attend  their  own  churches  under 
certain  restrictions.  The  old  Puritan  Sunday  still  sur- 
vived in  a  great  measure,  and  I  remember  that  we 
were  not  allowed  to  read  the  same  books  as  on  week- 
days, and  had  special  Sunday  clothes  which  were 
specially  uncomfortable,  as  if  to  remind  us  that  we 
must  be  on  our  good  behavior,  and  could  not  play 
any  games  or  frolic;  in  consequence  of  which  we 
looked  upon  Sunday  as  a  day  to  be  dreaded;  and  a 
long  and  dreary  day  it  was,  to  young  boys  full  of 
animal  spirits  and  a  desire  to  work  them  off.  I  do  not 
remember  that  we  went  to  any  Sunday  school,  be- 
cause I  think  there  was  none  connected  with  the  col- 
lege chapel,  but  our  mother  gave  us  religious  instruc- 
tion at  home.  The  presidents  of  the  college  were 
always  clergymen,  and  conducted  the  services  in  the 
chapel  themselves.  They  seemed  to  me  a  succession 
of  dull  preachers,  Presidents  Sparks,  Walker,  and  Hill, 
but  perhaps  that  was  only  because  my  young  under- 
standing was  not  equal  to  the  profundity  of  their  re- 
marks. President  Felton  was  the  first  president  not  a 
clergyman. 

Speaking  of  Puritan  Sundays:  it  was  only  a  few 


CRAIGIE  HOUSE  19 

years  ago  that  on  one  Sunday  morning  in  Boston  I 
heard  a  boy,  returning  from  church  with  his  father  on 
Commonwealth  Avenue,  shout  to  another  boy  on  the 
other  side  of  the  street,  whereupon  his  father  re- 
proved him  by  saying,  "Hush,  you  forget  it  is  Sun- 
day"—  so  the  old  spirit  still  lingers. 


CHAPTER  II 
MY  FATHER'S  FRIENDS 

My  father's  special  friends,  in  the  early  days,  were 
Charles  Sumner,  Professor  Felton,  Professor  Agassiz, 
James  Russell  Lowell,  Professor  Charles  Eliot  Nor- 
ton, and  James  T.  Fields.  Mr.  Sumner  was,  I  think, 
nearer  to  my  father  than  any  one.  They  seemed  to 
share  the  same  ideals,  and  had  the  same  hatred  of 
injustice  and  oppression,  and  were  in  entire  accord 
politically  until  Mr.  Sumner's  quarrel  with  General 
Grant  and  his  support  of  Greeley,  when  my  father  re- 
mained staunch  to  the  Republican  Party,  to  which  he 
had  belonged  from  its  foundation. 

Sumner  was  a  large  and  tall  man  of  over  six  feet,  of  a 
genial  temperament,  but  somewhat  wanting  in  humor, 
and  took  himself  and  the  causes  he  advocated  very 
seriously.  He  was  a  cultivated  man  with  a  wonderful 
memory,  and  had  been  much  in  England  and  on 
the  Continent.  He  almost  always  wore  a  frock  coat 
and  white  waistcoat,  with  check  trousers  and  white 
spats,  quite  in  the  English  statesman's  style.  He 
corresponded  constantly  with  my  father  and  always, 
when  he  was  in  Boston,  dined  with  us  on  Sundays, 
having  a  house  on  Hancock  Street  and  usually  walking 


MY  FATIiER'S  FRIENDS  21 

out  for  the  then  midday  nieal.  He  was  rather  awe- 
inspiring  to  us  children,  and  had  a  way  of  resting  his 
hand  affectionately  upon  our  heads  and  gradually 
bearing  down  as  he  forgot  himself  in  conversation,  till 
we,  who  at  first  did  not  dare  to  move,  at  last  gave 
way  under  the  pressure  and  collapsed.  He  also  would 
take  one's  hand  in  his  and,  grinding  his  thumb  into 
the  back  of  it  till  we  could  bear  the  pain  no  longer, 
would  then  release  it  with  a  laugh.  I  do  not  think  he 
intentionally  made  us  suffer,  it  was  only  his  idea  of 
being  playful:  a  rather  elephantine  one,  I  must  con- 
fess. He  used  to  tell  a  story  on  himself  and  thought 
It  a  great  joke,  about  once,  on  a  Fourth  of  July,  calling 
up  his  office  boy  and  delivering  to  him  an  impromptu 
Fourth-of-July  oration  of  what  the  day  meant,  and  all 
that,  and  then  giving  him  a  quarter  and  telling  him  he 
could  go  and  pass  the  day  at  Mount  Auburn  (the 
cemetery  in  Cambridge).  Let  us  hope  the  boy  spent  it 
in  fire-crackers  and  on  Boston  Common  instead. 

Mr.  Sumner,  as  I  remember  him  best,  had  iron-grey 
hair  and  side  whiskers  and  a  rather  long  nose  which  he 
was  fond  of  pulling.  I  remember  wondering  as  a  boy 
whether  it  was  so  long  because  of  this  habit  of  his,  or  if 
he  pulled  it  because  it  was  so  long.  He  had  rather  small 
and  what  might  be  called  pig's  eyes,  with  red  rims, 
but  on  the  whole  was  a  fine-looking  man,  with  an 
imposing  presence.  I  remember  well  the  terrible  com- 


22  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

motion  made  by  the  attack  upon  him  in  the  Senate 
Chamber  by  Brooks.  He  was  struck  from  behind  as 
he  was  seated  at  his  desk,  and  In  his  frantic  efforts  to 
rise  to  escape  the  terrible  blows  of  the  cane  on  the 
back  of  his  head,  tore  the  desk  bodily  from  Its  fasten- 
ings. It  was  many  years,  and  after  much  suffering 
and  searing  with  white-hot  irons  on  his  back,  before  he 
recovered  his  health,  and  I  imagine  his  nervous  system 
never  fully  recovered,  which  may  have 'had  something 
to  do  with  the  infelicities  of  his  marriage,  late  in  life,  to 
the  widow  Hooper,  afterwards  known  as  Mrs.  Mason, 
she  having  resumed  her  maiden  name  after  the  divorce. 

One  amusing  incident  In  relation  to  Mr.  Sumner  I 
must  not  forget.  My  father  had  had  constructed  in 
his  dressing-room  a  shower  bath,  let  into  the  wall,  with 
curtains  in  front.  He  was  one  day  showing  it  with 
pride  to  Mr.  Sumner  and  explained  how  by  pulling  a 
cord  the  water  descended,  whereupon  Mr.  Sumner 
stepped  into  the  alcove,  and  pulled  the  cord,  without 
thinking,  just  to  see  how  it  worked,  and  was  of  course 
drenched.  Alas,  for  the  dignified  Sumner! 

Another  story  of  Sumner  that  he  used  to  tell  against 
himself  related  to  one  of  his  voyages  to  Europe.  As 
the  guest  of  honor  on  board  he  had  a  seat  on  the  right 
hand  of  the  captain  at  his  table.  Mr.  Sumner  had 
been  ill  for  three  days  and  at  last  dragged  himself  up 
in  time  for  dinner,  but  was  a  little  late.  Those  were 


MY  FATHER'S  FRIENDS  23 

the  days  when  the  captain  sat  at  the  head  of  a  long 
table  and  carved  the  roast  himself.  On  this  occasion 
the  captain  called  loudly  for  the  steward  to  know  where 
the  beef  gravy  was. "  Please,  sir,"  said  the  steward, "  this 
gentleman  has  eaten  it,  thinking  it  was  the  soup." 
Whereupon  Mr.  Sumner  retiredmore  sick  than  before. 

Mr.  Sumner  was  very  kind  to  me  later,  when  at  the 
age  of  seventeen  I  had  the  ambition  to  enter  West 
Point;  although  he  must  have  known  my  father's 
aversion  to  war  or  anything  connected  with  it,  he  had 
me  appointed  to  the  Academy.  Unfortunately,  when 
the  time  came  for  me  to  go  up  for  my  examination,  I 
was  sick  in  bed  and  had  little  courage,  and  gave  in  to 
my  father's  objections  to  my  entering  on  a  soldier's 
career.  I  have  always  regretted  this,  as  I  still  believe 
that  I  should  have  made  a  better  soldier  than  artist. 

Mr.  Sumner's  brother  George  was  also  a  frequent 
visitor  at  the  house.  He  was  a  cultivated  man  and 
much  travelled.  He  was  also  responsible  for  having  the 
State  House  painted  chocolate  color.  Another  brother, 
Albert,  also  came  sometimes.  He  and  his  wife  were 
lost  at  sea  in  a  collision  of  steamships  outside  New 
York,  and  I  remember  there  was  a  lawsuit  about  the 
property  as  to  which  was  likely  to  have  survived  the 
other.  The  court  finally  decided,  I  believe,  that  the 
man,  being  supposedly  the  stronger,  would  naturally 
survive  the  longer. 


24  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

About  1848  there  appeared  on  the  scene  a  young 
German  poet,  Emmanuel  Scherb  by  name;  slender, 
with  dark  hair  worn  long  like  Liszt's.  He  was  a  con- 
stant visitor  at  the  house  and  was,  I  imagine,  a  po- 
litical refugee.   He  seemed  to  be  very  poor,  and  no 
doubt  was  glad  of  the  economy  of  constant  dinners 
and  teas  at  our  house.    He  was  a  cultivated  man, 
however,  and  my  father  seemed  fond  of  him,  or  at 
least  he  tolerated  him,  perhaps  out  of  compassion,  as 
he  did  so  many  others.  We  boys,  and  also  my  Uncle 
Tom  Appleton,  specially  disliked  him,  and  I  think  it 
must  have  been  of  him  that  my  father  once  remarked, 
when  some  one  asked  him  why  he  allowed  him  to  come 
so  much  to  the  house,  "Who  would  be  kind  to  him  if 
I  were  not?"    We  caught  him  once  surreptitiously 
rubbing  a  small  round  bald  spot  on  the  top  of  his 
head,  that  looked  surprisingly  like  a  priest's  tonsure, 
and  asked  him  why  he  did  it,  and  he  said  that  the 
friction  would  make  the  hair  grow,  whereas  we  felt 
convinced  it  would  have  quite  the  contrary  eflfect, 
and  were  perfectly  sure  after  that  that  he  was  a 
Jesuit  in  disguise.  However,  later,  as  he  became  more 
and  more  down  on  his  luck,  I  believe  he  became  a 
Unitarian  preacher,  and  finally  in  '62  or  '63  he  was 
detected  in  bounty-jumping,  or,  in  other  words,  of 
enlisting  to  get  the  bounty  that  was  paid  for  recruits, 
and  then  deserting.  I  believe  my  father  had  to  pay 


MY  FATHER'S  FRIENDS  25 

a  considerable  sum  to  get  him  out  of  that  scrape. 
Shortly  afterwards,  to  the  relief  of  every  one,  he 
died  in  a  hospital  in  Boston. 

Professor  Felton,  afterwards  president  of  the  col- 
lege, was  a  man  of  large  bulk,  with  a  smooth-shaven 
face  and  tight-curling  black  hair,  and  resembled  some 
of  the  old  Romans,  especially  as  his  nose  was  of  the 
type  known  by  that  name.  He  was  a  very  genial  man 
with  a  hearty  laugh,  and  came  a  great  deal  to  the 
house  in  the  early  days,  and  to  Nahant,  where  he 
lived  in  the  Gary  Cottage,  near  the  Spouting  Horn 
on  the  north  shore. 

I  remember  his  telling  us  how  one  day,  when  he  had 
stripped  for  his  daily  swim  and  was  contemplating 
the  waves,  which  were  unusually  high,  and  had  just 
made  up  his  mind  that  it  was  too  rough  safely  to  take 
a  swim,  a  huge  wave,  larger  than  its  fellows,  picked 
him  up  from  the  rock  on  which  he  was  sitting,  as  if  he 
had  been  a  baby,  and  carried  him  out  to  sea,  when 
another  equally  large  one  brought  him  back  again 
and  deposited  him  on  the  same  spot,  only  very  much 
bruised  and  scratched:  he  was  so  fat  he  was  like  a 
cork,  and  was  easily  tossed  about,  and  must  have 
been  an  amusing  sight;  but  it  was  no  joke  for  him. 

Professor  Agassiz  was  the  most  charming  man  of 
all  my  father's  friends.  He  was  the  embodiment  of 
bonhomie  and  had  the  most  delightful  and  contagious 


26  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

laugh  I  ever  heard.  We  saw  much  of  him,  both  at 
Cambridge  and  at  Nahant,  where  he  also  had  a  cot- 
tage, at  the  foot  of  the  hill  on  which  the  Gary  Cottage 
stood.  He  was  like  a  child  in  his  delight  when  some 
new  fish  or  medusa  was  brought  to  him  by  the  fisher- 
men, who  all  understood  that  anything  unusual  that 
came  up  on  their  lines,  or  that  was  caught  in  their  nets, 
was  to  go  direct  to  him.  He  had  large  tanks  con- 
nected with  his  house,  where,  in  constantly  renewed 
salt  water,  he  had  them  put,  so  that  he  could  study 
them  at  leisure.  He  also  took  the  greatest  interest  in 
geology  and  would  dance  with  joy  when  he  found 
some  rock  smooth  and  polished  by  ice  that  confirmed 
his  glacial  theory,  or  stray  boulders  of  a  diff"erent  ma- 
terial from  that  of  the  surrounding  rocks,  showing 
that  they  must  have  been  brought  from  a  distance; 
and  he  would  treat  with  the  greatest  contempt  the 
suggestion  that  they  might  have  been  deposited  on 
the  shore  by  icebergs,  which  I  believe  is  the  theory 
of  some  scientists.  There  are  several  of  these  large 
boulders  in  Essex  County,  the  Ship  Rock  in  Saugus 
and  the  Agassiz  Boulder  in  Manchester  being  two  of 
the  largest  and  visited  by  Agassiz  with  great  interest. 
With  all  his  charm  and  good  nature  the  mention  of 
Darwin  and  his  theory  acted  on  him  like  a  red  rag  to  a 
bull,  and  he  would  become  so  excited  and  furious  that 
it  would  be  well  to  drop  the  subject  as  quickly  as  pos- 


MY  FATHER'S  FRIENDS  27 

sible,  and  then  he  would  calm  down  with  a  great  burst 
of  laughter  at  his  own  rage.  He  would  never  allow 
that  Darwin  had  a  leg  to  stand  on,  and  always  argued 
that  if  the  Creator  could  make  many  species  develop 
from  one,  He  could  equally  and  with  more  reason 
create  all  the  different  species.  I  do  not  know  whether 
he  ever  changed  his  mind  or  ever  accepted,  what  all 
the  rest  of  the  scientific  world  soon  came  to  accept  as 
one  of  the  fundamental  principles  of  creation  — •  the 
development  of  species.  He  spoke  English  wonder- 
fully well,  with  only  a  slight  foreign  accent,  and  was 
one  of  the  most  delightful  lecturers  I  ever  heard,  so 
clear  and  concise,  and  with  a  wonderful  talent  for 
drawing  in  chalk  on  the  blackboard.  It  was  a  real 
treat  to  see  a  perfect  fish  or  skeleton  develop  under 
his  hand  with  extraordinary  sureness  and  perfect 
knowledge,  without  any  hesitation  or  correcting,  like 
a  Japanese  drawing  in  its  truth  to  nature,  and  it 
seemed  a  shame  that  such  beautiful  drawings  were 
only  in  chalk  and  had  to  be  rubbed  out  again.  I  re- 
member his  saying  once  that  the  first  time  he  lec- 
tured, he  told  his  audience  all  he  knew  in  twenty 
minutes,  and  had  been  elaborating  ever  since.  Such 
was  the  modesty  of  one  of  the  most  learned  of  men. 
To  show  the  extraordinary  kindness  of  the  man  — 
once,  when  I  was  just  beginning  my  artistic  career,  he 
was  talking  to  me  of  the  carelessness  of  artists  in  de- 


28  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

picting  the  different  species  of  trees  or  geological  for- 
mations, and  spoke  of  Calarme,  a  Swiss  artist,  in  whose 
pictures,  on  the  contrary,  these  things  were  always 
carefully  attended  to.  Poor  dear  man,  he  little  under- 
stood that  science  and  art  are  widely  separated,  and 
that  a  slavish  copying  of  nature  is  not  art,  and  that 
art  does  not  concern  itself  with  fauna  and  geological 
periods,  but  with  the  impression  a  particular  scene  or 
effect  has  on  the  spectator  and  can  be  made  to  have 
on  the  imagination  of  others.  However,  in  this  par- 
ticular case,  he  very  kindly  asked  me  to  come  over  to 
his  place  on  the  north  side  of  Nahant  the  next  morn- 
ing, and  he  would  give  me  a  lecture  on  rock  forma- 
tion. So  the  next  morning  I  appeared  at  his  cottage 
and  he  took  me  out  on  the  shore,  and  for  an  hour  and 
a  half  of  his  valuable  time,  he  gave  me  a  most  delight- 
ful talk  on  the  geological  periods  and  the  formation 
of  different  rocks. 

One  of  my  great  regrets  in  life  is  that  my  father 
would  not  let  me  go  with  Agassiz  on  his  expedition  to 
Brazil  and  his  exploration  of  the  Amazon.  Agassiz 
had  offered  me  the  post  of  artist  to  the  expedition  and 
I  had  been  wild  to  go,  but  I  was  not  yet  of  age,  and 
my  father  very  much  opposed  it,  fearing  I  could  not 
stand  the  climate,  so  I  reluctantly  gave  it  up.  It  was 
certainly  one  of  the  lost  chances  of  my  life.  That  was 
very  characteristic  of  my  father;  he  always  thought 


MY  FATHER'S  FRIENDS  29 

it  wisest  not  to  do  a  thing.  He  had  none  of  the  adven- 
turous spirit.  "To  stay  at  home  is  best,"  he  wrote. 
He  hated  excess  or  extremes.  He  dishked  extreme 
cold  or  extreme  heat,  and  beHeved  in  the  juste  milieu 
in  everything.  Not  for  him,  therefore,  the  extreme 
heights  or  depths  of  the  tragic  poets.  He  was  not  a 
rushing  river,  boiHng  and  tumbling  over  rocks,  but 
the  placid  stream  flowing  through  quiet  meadows. 
He  hated  war,  he  hated  violence  in  any  form,  and 
though  nothing  roused  his  indignation  like  injustice, 
he  was  for  peaceful  measures  if  possible. 

None  of  the  abolitionists  hated  slavery  more  than 
he,  but  he  did  not  believe  in  violent  methods,  and 
thought  that  in  time  gradual  emancipation  could 
be  brought  about  with  proper  compensation  to  the 
slave-owners.  But,  unfortunately,  the  South  did  be- 
lieve in  violent  measures,  and  by  their  violence  pulled 
the  temple  about  their  ears,  and  brought  about  the 
very  catastrophe  that  they  dreaded.  "They  that  take 
the  sword  shall  perish  with  the  sword." 

James  Russell  Lowell  was,  of  course,  one  of  the 
most  frequent  visitors  to  our  house,  living  as  he  did  at 
Elmwood,  only  a  short  distance  beyond,  and  passing 
daily  on  his  walks  to  and  from  the  college,  when  as 
Professor  of  Belles-Lettres  he  succeeded  my  father  in 
1857.  Mr.  Lowell  was  a  handsome  man  with  reddish 
beard,  and  hair  parted  in  the  middle,  which  at  that 


30  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

time  was  thought  very  effeminate;  I  remember  an  ad- 
vertisement of  the  period,  in  which  a  man  was  wanted, 
which  ended  with  "No  one  who  parts  his  hair  in  the 
middle  need  apply."  Mr.  Lowell  always  seemed  to  me 
hard  to  understand,  and  it  was  only  after  his  death, 
when  his  letters  were  published  by  Charles  Eliot 
Norton,  that  there  seemed  to  be  a  clue  to  the  enigma. 
I  think  he  was  a  very  sensitive  and  perhaps  shy  man, 
and  thought  he  was  not  appreciated,  as  appears  in  his 
letters,  and  was  jealous  of  the  successes  of  others.  A 
man  genial  and  charming  as  host  in  his  own  house,  he 
seemed  constrained  and  shy  in  company;  given  to 
saying  sharp  things  and  doing  occasionally  most  ex- 
traordinarily gauche  things,  for  a  man  of  the  world. 
It  was  only  as  Minister  to  England,  where  he  was 
made  much  of,  and  flattered  to  his  heart's  content,  that 
he  seemed  to  find  himself.  In  America,  before  he  was 
appointed  as  Minister  to  Spain,  he  went  little  into 
society,  and  preferred  to  shut  himself  up  in  his  own 
house,  where  he  received  a  few  intimate  friends,  and 
where,  by  his  own  fireside  with  his  pipe  in  his  mouth, 
he  was  the  most  delightful  conversationalist,  with 
many  quips  and  cranks,  and  much  unusual  and  eru- 
dite knowledge. 

I  could  give  several  instances  of  his  gaucherie  in  so- 
ciety that  have  been  related  to  me,  but  will  give  only 
one  instance  that  happened  to  me  personally.  To  be- 


MY  FATHER'S  FRIENDS  31 

gin  with,  at  the  time  of  my  father's  death,  Mr.  Lowell, 
then  in  England,  was  the  only  one  of  my  father's  inti- 
mate friends  who  did  not  write  either  to  my  sisters  or 
myself  some  word  of  condolence  and  sympathy.  The 
first  time  I  saw  Mr.  Lowell  after  that  event  was  at  my 
youngest  sister's  wedding  some  years  later,  at  the 
Craigie  house.  I  had  not  seen  him  since  I  had  been  in 
Madrid,  at  the  time  he  was  Minister  there,  when  he 
had  been  most  cordial  and  hospitable.  Seeing  him 
standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room  talking  with  Mr. 
Norton,  I  went  up  to  him  and  very  cordially  took  him 
by  the  hand  and  said  how  glad  I  was  to  see  him  back 
in  America.  I  then  turned  to  shake  hands  with  Mr. 
Norton.  Mr.  Lowell,  to  my  utter  astonishment, 
turned  on  his  heel,  and  without  a  word  to  me  walked 
across  the  room  to  Miss  Norton,  who  was  standing  at 
some  distance,  and  did  not  come  near  me  again.  I 
have  never  been  able  to  understand  this  incident.  I 
saw  Mr.  Lowell  frequently  after  that,  before  his  death, 
but  no  explanation  was  ever  offered  by  him  or  asked 
for  by  me,  and  he  always  seemed  most  cordial  when  I 
called  upon  him  at  his  house,  which  I  did  several  times 
while  he  was  ill. 

Charles  Eliot  Norton  was  another  of  my  father's 
friends,  although  much  younger.  He  came  much  to 
the  house  in  the  days  of  the  Dante  suppers  so  charm- 
ingly described  by  Mr.  Howells.    A  sweet,  gentle 


32  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

nature,  perhaps  a  little  over-refined,  but  a  ripe  scholar 
and  a  lover  of  art.  My  father  relied  much  on  his  judg- 
ments in  things  literary,  and  especially  on  his  criti- 
cisms of  his  translation  of  Dante.  In  art,  however,  he 
was  a  Ruskinlte,  and  did  not  believe,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  Turner  and  Burne- Jones,  that  any  art  existed 
since  the  Renaissance.  He  once  apologized  to  me  for 
having  a  charming  Corot  hanging  in  his  hall,  left  by 
some  friend  for  him  to  care  take  of.  Fancy  apologiz- 
ing for  a  Corot ! 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  came  seldom  to  my  father's 
house,  but  I  saw  him  occasionally  at  the  Saturday 
Club,  where  my  father  sometimes  took  me,  and  also 
at  lectures  given  by  Mr.  Emerson  in  Boston,  where  he 
invariably  got  his  manuscript  mixed  and  would  fill  in 
the  space  with  his  beaming  smile,  as  if  to  take  his  au- 
dience into  his  confidence,  and  say,  "You  see  how  it  is 
with  philosophers,  they  can't  be  expected  to  do  things 
like  other  people."  That  wonderful,  benignant  smile 
is  the  chief  thing  I  remember  about  him.  There  is  a 
story  told  about  him  and  Alcott,  a  neighbor  in  Con- 
cord, which,  if  not  true,  is  "ben  trovato."  It  seems 
that  Alcott  used  to  visit  Emerson  In  the  mornings  and 
Emerson  would  get  off  some  of  his  Orphic  sayings, 
and  in  the  afternoon  Emerson  would  visit  Alcott, 
when  the  latter  would  repeat  some  of  the  things  Emer- 
son had  said  in  the  morning.    Emerson,  quite  forget- 


MY  FATHER'S  FRIENDS  33 

ting  that  he  had  said  them,  would  say,  "What  a 
remarkable  mind  Alcott  haB.'" 

A  unique  character  in  Cambridge  In  those  days  was 
Sophocles,  the  Greek  Professor.  Of  small  stature,  with 
a  great  mass  of  tousled  grey  hair  and  beard,  out  of 
which  gleamed  two  piercing  black  eyes,  he  was  sup- 
posed to  live  in  almost  abject  poverty,  in  one  room, 
cooking  his  own  meals,  that  he  might  send  all  his 
salary  to  his  aged  mother  in  Greece.  He  used  to  tell  a 
marvellous  tale  about  his  father  and  the  primitive 
habits  of  life  in  Greece.  I  cannot  do  justice  to  the 
story,  but  it  seems  that  his  father  lived  somewhere  in 
the  country  where  he  was  visited  one  day  by  some 
cut-throats  who  announced  that  they  had  come  to 
kill  him.  His  father  knew  these  men  and  knew  that 
they  had  come  from  an  enemy  of  his.  So  he  said  to 
them,  "How  much  does  my  enemy  give  you  to  kill 
me.**"  —  and  they  named  a  sum,  a  very  small  sum  in 
our  money.  And  he  said  to  them,  "  I  will  give  you  so 
much  more"  —  and  he  named  a  sum —  "if  you  will 
go  back  and  kill  my  enemy  instead  of  me."  And  after 
they  had  eaten  and  drunk,  they  departed  to  kill  his 
enemy.  Then  Sophocles  would  give  a  most  unholy 
chuckle. 

An  occasional  visitor  to  our  house  was  the  "Wicked" 
Sam  Ward,  so  called  to  distinguish  him  from  the 
"Good"  Sam  Ward,  who  was  a  banker  and  the  agent 


34  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

of  the  Barings  in  America.  Sam  Ward  had  been  a 
fellow-student  of  my  father's  in  Germany,  I  think  at 
Heidelberg,  and  always  had  a  warm  affection  for  him, 
in  spite  of  their  being  so  dissimilar  in  every  way.  He 
was  a  most  charming  and  agreeable  man.  He,  on 
several  occasions,  sold  poems  for  my  father  to  news- 
papers or  publishers  at  a  much  higher  price  than  my 
father  would  have  dared  to  ask.  He  was  the  brother 
of  Julia  Ward  Howe,  and  uncle  of  Marion  Crawford, 
the  novelist,  and  it  was  owing  to  his  urging  that  the 
latter  wrote  his  first  book,  "Mr.  Isaacs,"  which  had 
such  an  Immediate  success.  Mr.  Ward,  in  later  years, 
lived  in  Washington,  and  was  known  as  the  "King  of 
the  Lobby."  He  gave  wonderful  dinners,  and  was 
supposed  thereby  to  be  able  to  "put  over"  legisla- 
tion when  his  guests  were  in  a  mellow  mood. 

A  certain  Hungarian,  Szerdehaly  —  if  that  is  the 
right  spelling,  which  probably  it  is  not  —  at  one  time 
came  much  to  the  house.  He  had  been  an  officer  in  the 
army  and  had  fought  under  Kossuth.  He  was  won- 
derfully well-read  on  all  military  matters,  and  could 
describe  all  Napoleon's  campaigns  and  battles  in 
great  detail.  What  his  special  attraction  was,  to  my 
father,  I  do  not  know,  certainly  not  his  recital  of 
battles.  Probably  his  being  an  exile  was  enough  for 
my  father  to  be  kind  to  him. 

Another  political  exile  was  Luigi  Monti,  a  Sicilian, 


MY  FATHER'S  FRIENDS  35 

and  a  much  more  sympathetic  friend.  He  taught 
Italian  under  my  father  in  college,  and  we  all  became 
very  fond  of  him.  He  had  the  Italian  faculty  of  play- 
ing on  the  piano,  from  memory,  most  of  the  Italian 
operas,  and  was  always  a  welcome  guest.  He  married 
an  American,  the  sister  of  Dr.  T.  W.  Parsons,  who 
was  an  Italian  scholar,  and  who  made  one  of  the  best 
translations  in  verse  of  Dante's  "Inferno."  Mr. 
Monti  figured,  as  the  Sicilian,  in  my  father's  "Tales 
of  a  Wayside  Inn,"  as  did  also  Dr.  Parsons,  as  the 
poet,  and  is  described  there  better  than  I  can  do  it. 
Through  Mr.  Sumner  he  was  later  made  consul  to 
Palermo,  but  was  removed  by  Grant  when  he  and 
Sumner  quarrelled. 

The  genial  publisher  James  T.  Fields  and  his 
charming  and  romantic  wife  were,  of  course,  frequent 
visitors  at  Cambridge.  My  father,  I  think,  often  re- 
lied on  their  criticism  and  suggestion  before  publish- 
ing his  poems.  Mr.  Fields  was  a  large  man,  with  a 
superb  curly  black  beard,  and  was  a  great  raconteur. 
His  wife  was  rather  small  and  frail-looking.  If  he  got 
a  crumb  lodged  in  his  beard,  she  would  say,  "Jamie, 
dear,  there  is  a  gazelle  in  the  garden,"  which  amused 
his  friends  and  became  a  household  expression  in  our 
family.  She  would  also  have  lapses  and  a  far-away 
look,  and  when  questioned  would  say,  "Oh,  I  was  in 
Italy."  In  her  later  years  she  became  one  of  the  most 


36  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

delightful  old  ladies  I  ever  met,  so  cultivated  and  in- 
terested in  everything,  as  well  as  given  up  to  good 
works. 

Mr.  Fields  was  once  waked  in  the  night,  by  hear- 
ing some  one  moving  about  below  stairs.  Fearing 
burglars,  he  went  to  the  head  of  the  stairs,  and  called 
out  in  a  rather  shaky  voice,  "Who's  there.?"  "Come 
down  and  see,"  was  the  response  from  below,  where- 
upon Mr.  Fields  very  wisely  locked  himself  into  his 
room  and  from  the  window  called  loudly  for  the  police. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fields  had  a  little  box  of  a  house  on 
Charles  Street,  in  the  same  block  with  Dr.  Holmes, 
where  they  dispensed  a  charming  hospitality.  They 
had  many  interesting  souvenirs  from  celebrated 
people,  and  in  later  years  Mrs.  Fields  held  the  near- 
est approach  to  a  salon  of  anybody  in  Boston.  Mrs. 
Whitman,  Mrs.  Pratt,  and  Mrs.  Bell,  daughters  of 
Rufus  Choate;  Julia  Ward  Howe,  Mrs.  Thaxter,  and 
Miss  Jewett  were  some  of  the  ladies  who  added  lustre 
to  these  gatherings.  It  was  through  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Fields  that  all  the  literary  celebrities  of  the  world 
that  came  to  America  were  passed  on  to  my  father, 
such  as  Thackeray,  Dickens,  Trollope,  and  many 
others,  not  to  mention  Americans  like  Bayard  Taylor, 
Bret  Harte,  Howells,  etc. 

Thackeray  I  do  not  remember,  but  Dickens,  on  his 
second  visit,  came  several  times  to  lunch  and  dine.  He 


MY  FATHER'S  FRIENDS  37 

was  very  entertaining,  with  many  amusing  stories, 
but  somehow  not  quite  a  gentleman.  He  was  fond  of  a 
red  plush  waistcoat  and  a  very  loud  watch-chain.  On 
that  second  visit  he  gave  readings  from  his  own  works 
which  had  a  great  success,  and  I  imagine  that  Amer- 
ican dollars  made  him  look  more  kindly  on  the  coun- 
try than  he  did  on  his  first  visit.  He  had  as  a  manager 
an  Englishman  named  Dolby,  a  large  man,  and  a 
walking-match  was  arranged  between  him  and  Mr. 
Osgood,  the  publisher,  a  small  man.  Every  one  sup- 
posed the  large  Englishman  would  have  an  easy  vic- 
tory over  his  small  competitor,  especially  as  English- 
men are  known  as  such  great  walkers.  However,  when 
the  match  came  off,  owing,  I  fancy,  partly  to  Mr. 
Dolby's  over-confidence  and  his  not  taking  the 
trouble  to  get  himself  into  condition,  and  Mr.  Os- 
good's doing  so,  the  over-confident  and  large  Dolby 
soon  found  himself  out  of  breath  and  outdistanced  on 
the  hills,  and  Osgood  came  in  an  easy  winner. 

Lord  Houghton  came  often  to  dine  on  his  numer- 
ous visits  to  America.  He  was  very  genial,  but  rather 
eccentric,  and  had  very  bad  table  manners,  slobber- 
ing his  food.  I  afterwards  saw  him  in  London,  where 
he  came  to  call  on  my  wife  and  me.  He  did  nothing 
but  laugh  as  if  he  thought  that  it  was  a  huge  joke 
that  he  should  have  returned  our  call  at  all;  but  in 
spite  of  the  times  he  had  dined  at  my  father's  house 


50977 


38  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

in  Cambridge,  he  did  not  invite  us  to  his  house,  nor 
did  his  daughters  return  my  wife's  call.  Different 
countries,  diflferent  ways. 

Speaking  of  table  manners,  my  uncle,  Mr.  Mack- 
intosh, of  whom  I  have  already  spoken,  had  an 
aversion  to  napkins,  and  always  took  his  from  his 
plate  and  threw  it  into  the  corner  of  the  room,  using 
the  edge  of  the  tablecloth  instead.  At  that  time  nap- 
kins were  not  used  much  in  England,  and  I  remember 
that  up  to  1873  the  Cunard  Company  did  not  furnish 
any,  and  we  had  to  carry  our  own  when  we  went  to 
England.  There  is  a  story  that  one  day  in  England  a 
lady  making  a  visit  on  some  titled  person  remarked 
that  she  understood  that  the  Queen  had  introduced 
the  custom  of  having  napkins  at  lunch;  and  the  other 
remarked  that  the  Queen  ought  to  be  very  careful 
how  she  tampered  with  the  customs  of  England.  . 

To  return  to  the  celebrities:  Aubrey  de  Vere,  the 
Irish  poet,  I  remember  coming  to  dine  in  a  sealskin 
waistcoat,  which  must  have  been  very  hot,  besides 
showing  that  he  thought  the  American  barbarians  did 
not  dress  for  dinner. 

Trollope  was  a  very  loud-voiced  individual,  with 
the  true  British  self-confidence.  He  boasted  that  he 
made  a  practice  of  always  writing  just  so  many  hours 
a  day,  whether  he  felt  like  it  or  not :  which  accounts 
for  much  of  his  long-drawn-out  tediousness. 


MY  FATHER'S  FRIENDS  39 

Of  Americans,  Bayard  Taylor  came  often.  He  was 
a  very  handsome  man  of  fine  carriage,  and  must  have 
looked  superb  in  the  Arab  costume  which  he  wore  in 
his  travels  in  the  East.  He  had  many  thrilling  tales 
to  tell  of  his  explorations  of  unknown  lands. 

Bret  Harte,  a  slight  man,  with  sensitive  face,  al- 
though perhaps  at  home  in  the  wilds  of  California, 
had  so  little  sense  of  locality  that  I  remember  I  was 
asked  to  pilot  him  back  to  his  lodgings  in  Boston  after 
his  first  visit  to  us.  Later  he  came  on  to  deliver  a 
poem  before  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society.  Every  one 
was  disappointed  at  the  rather  commonplace  and  not 
at  all  appropriate  poem  he  delivered.  But  it  was 
whispered  about  privately  that  the  reason  was  that 
the  poem  he  had  prepared  for  the  occasion  was  de- 
stroyed, the  night  before,  by  his  wife,  who  was  known 
to  be  out  of  her  mind,  so  he  had  to  take  whatever  he 
had  on  hand.  Poor  man!  He,  of  course,  wanted  so 
much  to  make  a  good  impression  before  all  these 
Eastern  bigwigs  in  literature. 

Mr.  Howells  came  to  live  in  Cambridge  and  was 
always  a  welcome  visitor.  A  charming,  genial  man, 
with  a  keen  sense  of  humor  and  a  delightful  laugh 
easily  provoked.  My  father,  as  well  as  the  rest  of  us, 
grew  to  be  very  fond  of  him. 

Henry  James,  Sr.,  and  his  two  celebrated  sons  also 
lived  a  long  time  in  Cambridge.    Of  the  three,  Mr. 


40  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

James,  Sr.,  was  perhaps  the  most  Interesting.  He  was 
one  of  the  best  talkers  I  ever  heard.  Not  long  before 
he  died,  he  had  his  portrait  painted  by  Duveneck,  and 
as  Mr.  James  was  an  old  man  and  lame,  I  offered  my 
studio  in  Cambridge  for  the  sittings.  So  the  two  of  us 
painted  him  at  the  same  time,  and  he  entertained 
us  all  the  while  with  the  most  delightful  talk.  Profes- 
sor William  James  belonged  to  a  dining-club  with  me 
in  Cambridge  and  was  a  most  delightful  comrade, 
though  I  must  confess  sometimes  too  profound  for 
my  comprehension.  His  brother  Harry,  as  we  called 
him,  was  nearer  my  age,  and,  like  his  father,  was  a 
charming  talker  when  in  the  mood,  which  was  not  al- 
ways. In  those  early  days  he  had  not  acquired  the 
stutter  that  he  picked  up  in  England,  and  I  remember 
how  eagerly  we  welcomed  his  first  books.  His  later 
manner  became  so  involved  that,  like  the  rest  of  the 
world,  we  almost  gave  up  reading  him.  One  had  to 
go  through  such  a  struggle  with  obscure  sentences, 
and  hardly  any  plot,  that  it  was  seldom  worth  the 
eifort.  Why  literary  people  pretended  to  admire  his 
later  style  I  can't  imagine.  The  best  style  should  be 
the  clearest  and  simplest. 

One  of  the  most  delightful  of  men  was  George  Wil- 
liam Curtis,  who  came  on  from  New  York  occasion- 
ally. He  had  great  charm  of  manner  and  a  most  musi- 
cal voice,  and  was  a  great  favorite  as  a  lecturer.  Once 


MY  FATHER'S  FRIENDS  41 

in  the  fifties  we  stayed  in  the  same  house  with  him 
at  Newport.  He  was  at  that  time  courting  his  future 
wife,  Miss  Shaw.  She  was  devoted  to  horses,  and,  I 
suppose  to  ingratiate  himself  with  her,  he  bought  a 
fast  trotter,  and  used  to  take  her  to  ride,  although  I 
do  not  think  he  was  at  all  a  horsy  man  himself.  One 
day  she  could  not  go  with  him,  and  he  took  me  in- 
stead, a  lad  of  ten  or  twelve,  and  was  just  as  agreeable 
and  nice  to  me  as  if  he  had  not  been  disappointed  in 
his  companion,  which  shows  what  a  sweet  disposition 
he  had. 

I  had  almost  forgotten  Dr.  Holmes,  the  dear  little 
man.  He  was  like  a  sparrow,  always  chirping  so 
gaily.  I  remember  one  memorable  lunch  at  Nahant 
when  were  present  the  Doctor,  Mr.  Sumner,  Professor 
Agassiz,  Mr.  Appleton,  my  father,  and  myself.  How 
gay  the  talk  was,  and  how  brilliant!  It  would  be  hard 
to  find  four  more  wonderful  talkers  than  the  first  four. 
I  sat  next  to  Dr.  Holmes,  and  when  he  was  not  firing 
off  volleys  of  fire-crackers  in  response  to  the  sallies  of 
the  others,  he  was  plying  me  with  questions  as  if  to  see 
how  little  I  knew.  I  think  it  was  Dr.  Holmes  who 
once  related  how  on  one  of  his  lecturing  tours,  in 
some  small  country  town,  he  had  struggled  hard  to 
get  a  laugh  out  of  the  audience.  All  his  funniest  sal- 
lies fell  flat;  only  an  occasional  spasmodic  twitch  or 
grimace  would  pass  over  the  face  of  some  one.  Much 


42        •         RANDOM  MEMORIES 

discouraged,  he  finished  his  lecture  and  was  about  to 
depart,  when  one  of  the  selectmen  came  up  to  him 
and  thanked  him  warmly  for  the  lecture,  and  re- 
marked that  "some  of  the  things  you  said  were  so 
funny  that  it  was  all  we  could  do  not  to  laugh." 

Indeed,  to  have  seen  so  much  of  all  the  talented 
people  who  came  to  our  house  was  a  liberal  educa- 
tion in  itself,  and  I  have  always  felt  that  I  never  had 
any  education  at  all  in  comparison  with  the  learning 
of  those  men,  and  it  has  rather  spoiled  me  for  ordinary 
society. 

Of  course,  besides  literary  people  there  were  many 
other  celebrities  —  actors,  singers,  and  artists,  as  well 
as  public  characters  like  Kossuth  and  the  Prince  of 
Wales,  later  Edward  VII,  whom  I  remember  coming 
to  pay  their  respects  to  my  father.  Of  the  actresses, 
first  place  should  be  given  Mrs.  Kemble,  whose  won- 
derful reading  of  Shakespeare  enthralled  us  when  we 
were  young.  She  was  a  large  woman,  with  a  beau- 
tiful voice,  and  a  tragic  Lady  Macbeth  manner  that 
inspired  many  people  with  awe.  There  is  a  story  that 
she  was  introduced  to  a  timid  youth  in  Europe  who, 
to  make  conversation,  said,  "  I  believe,  madam,  that 
you  have  many  fine  hotels  in  America."  She  glared 
at  him  a  moment,  and  then  crushed  him  with  the  re- 
mark in  her  most  tragic  manner,  "  I  have  no  hotel  in 
America."    She  was,  however,  really  a  most  kindly 


MY  FATHER'S  FRIENDS  43 

person.  We  once  passed  a  summer  at  Nahant  in  the 
same  boarding-house  with  her  and  her  daughter, 
Mrs.  Wister.  I  was  then  only  a  boy  and  one  day  we 
had  all  gone  for  a  picnic  to  the  Ship  Rock  in  Saugus. 
For  some  reason,  either  from  the  heat  of  the  sun,  or 
from  the  viands,  or  both,  I  had  a  violent  sick  headache. 
Mrs.  Kemble  took  compassion  on  me  and  took  my 
head  in  her  lap.  Mrs.  Wister,  whose  father,  Mr. 
Butler,  was  an  American,  was  once  in  Europe  at  a 
table  d'hote  where  a  lot  of  English  were  making  fun  of 
Americans  for  their  pronunciation  and  queer  phrases. 
When  she  could  stand  it  no  longer,  she  said  in  the 
beautiful  English  learned  from  her  mother,  "We  may 
not  speak  your  language,  but  we  understand  it." 
Tableau ! 

Of  course  Sarah  Bernhardt  came  to  see  my  father, 
and  it  Is  said  kissed  him,  but  I  cannot  vouch  for  that, 
though  it  sounds  likely. 

The  two  beautiful  women  Miss  Nilsson,  the  singer, 
and  Miss  Neilson,  the  actress,  I  remember  coming; 
especially  the  latter,  who  was  the  most  lovely  Juliet 
ever  seen  on  the  stage,  with  a  beautiful  English  voice 
and  charming  acting.  Nilsson  the  singer  I  first  heard 
in  Paris,  where  she  was  singing  in  1866  at  the  Lyric 
Theatre,  now,  I  believe,  the  Sarah  Bernhardt.  She 
was  then  singing  contralto  parts,  having  a  mezzo- 
soprano  voice,  Cavallo,  the  wife  of  the  manager, 


44  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

taking  the  soprano.  She  was  then  young  and  very 
beautiful  and  a  great  favorite,  which  naturally  made 
Cavallo  jealous. 

Among  the  musicians  I  must  not  forget  Ole  Bull, 
the  great  violinist.  He  came  often  to  play  to  my  fa- 
ther, and  was  like  a  great  child  in  his  simplicity  and 
self-esteem.  He  told  once  of  his  son  by  his  first  mar- 
riage, whom  he  had  not  seen  for  many  years,  coming 
to  America  to  find  him,  and  how  he  went  to  a  concert 
and,  not  remembering  his  father  by  sight  after  so 
long,  was  not  sure  it  was  he  till  he  heard  him  play,  and 
then  he  said,  "Ah!  it  is  the  great  Ole  Bull.'^  Ole  Bull 
married,  in  this  country,  a  charming  woman,  much 
younger,  a  Miss  Thorp,  whose  brother  married  my 
youngest  sister,  so  that  the  families  were  brought 
much  together.  He  was  a  most  genial  and  kindly 
man  and  figured  in  the  "Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn"  as 
the  violinist.  I  do  not  know  how  musical  people  rank 
him  as  a  virtuoso,  but  I  fancy  he  was  accused  of  being 
too  fond  of  showing  off.  However,  he  certainly  gave 
us  a  great  deal  of  pleasure  by  his  playing,  so  what  is 
the  use  of  comparisons  ? 

Fechter  we  all  liked  very  much  when  he  was  acting 
in  Boston.  Socially  also  he  was  delightful,  so  full  of 
bonhomie  and  good  spirits.  He  made  the  most  roman- 
tic of  lovers,  and  we  young  people  were  never  tired 
of  quoting  the  many  romantic  speeches  from  his  plays. 


MY  FATHER'S  FRIENDS  45 

such  as,  "Dost  like  the  picture?"  and,  "Wilt  walk?" 
or,  "I  am  here,  Lagardere." 

Booth  came  too.  Poor,  melancholy  Booth !  I  think 
he  never  recovered  from  his  brother's  dastardly  crime. 
I  remember  being  in  the  same  hotel  with  him  in  New 
York  when  he  was  playing  with  Salvini.  He  gave 
Mrs.  Longfellow  and  me  a  box  one  night,  and  in  the 
scene  where  Othello  throws  lago  down,  Booth  was  so 
drunk,  or  ill,  that  he  lay  with  his  head  in  the  footlights, 
and  could  not  get  up  till  Salvini  came  and  pulled  him 
up.  Poor  man!  he  was  hissed,  and  it  was  very  em- 
barrassing for  me  the  next  day  when  I  had  to  thank 
him  for  the  pleasure  the  performance  had  given  us. 

Salvini  also  came  to  my  father's  house  many  times, 
and  my  father  enjoyed  talking  Italian  with  him.  He 
certainly  was  a  remarkable  tragic  actor,  who  could 
carry  off  a  play  speaking  Italian  when  the  rest  of  the 
company  were  speaking  English. 

My  father  was  very  fond  of  music,  being  able  him- 
self to  play  a  little  on  the  piano,  and  having  been 
guilty  of  playing  the  flute  in  his  youth,  sometimes 
even  playing  it  occasionally  in  later  years  for  our 
benefit.  Therefore,  he  enjoyed  the  many  musicians 
who  came,  and  who  were  delighted  to  play  or  sing  to 
him.  Also  he  was  always  receiving  seats  and  boxes  for 
the  operas  and  concerts. 

I  can  remember  the  first  operas  I  heard  as  a  boy. 


46  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

with  Mario  and  Grisi,  and  later,  when  about  sixteen, 
Patti's  first  appearance.  How  charming  and  beauti- 
ful she  was,  and  how  like  a  bird  she  sang!  Of  course 
nobody  has  ever  come  up  to  her  since,  in  her  particu- 
lar line.  My  father's  favorite  opera  was  "Don  Gio- 
vanni," and  I  think  it  has  been  mine  also,  when  well 
given,  but  it  needs  an  uncommonly  strong  cast,  which 
is  not  always  obtainable. 

Many  artists  and  critics  passed  through  our  doors : 
the  former  mostly  in  search  of  a  job  to  paint  my 
father's  portrait;  but  for  some  reason  there  was 
never  a  really  satisfactory  picture  ever  made  of  him. 

Lawrence,  the  English  artist,  made  a  very  good 
drawing,  done  before  my  father  grew  a  beard,  but 
slightly  too  fierce  in  expression. 

Healy  painted  him  three  times,  twice  in  Rome  in 
1869  — '  once  with  his  daughter  Edith,  and  once  stand- 
ing under  the  Arch  of  Titus.  What  his  idea  was  I  do 
not  know.  The  other  portrait  he  painted  I  think  in 
1862,  not  long  after  my  mother's  tragic  death,  and 
when  my  father  for  the  first  time  had  grown  a  beard. 

Many  sculptors  tried  their  hands  at  busts:  one  a 
negress  in  Rome;  what  has  become  of  it  I  do  not 
know.  The  best  was  by  Powers  in  Florence,  but  still 
not  quite  satisfactory.  The  bust  in  Westminster  Ab- 
bey, by  Brock,  an  Englishman,  from  photographs 
we  sent  him,  although  it  looks  very  well  in  its  posi- 


MY  FATHER'S  FRIENDS  47 

tlon,  has  too  much  the  look  of  a  prosperous  English 
business  man. 

I  remember  well  William  Winter,  in  later  years  the 
dramatic  critic,  coming  to  see  my  father  when  he  was 
a  young  man,  rather  timid  and  shy.  My  father  would 
always  offer  him  a  cigar,  which  he  was  too  timid  to  re- 
fuse, and  which  invariably  made  him  sick,  so  that  he 
would  have  to  retire  to  the  garden.  The  same  thing 
happened  every  time  he  came,  much  to  the  amuse- 
ment of  us  boys. 

Among  others  living  in  Cambridge  was  a  painter  of 
some  note  who  was  also  a  poet.  One  day  I  had  been 
reading  some  of  his  poetry,  and  I  said  to  my  father 
that  I  thought  Mr.  C.'s  poetry  was  better  than  his 
paintings.  My  father  said,  "On  the  contrary,  his 
paintings  are  better  than  his  poetry,"  which,  between 
two  expert  opinions,  seemed  to  leave  very  little  of  the 
unfortunate  gentleman. 

A  little  poet  named  Street  came  to  lunch  at  Na- 
hant  one  day.  After  lunch  my  father  and  he  took  a 
walk  in  the  course  of  which  they  met  a  nicely  dressed 
woman,  to  whom  my  father,  always  very  polite  to  his 
servants,  took  off  his  hat.  Mr.  Street  demanded  to 
know  who  the  handsome  lady  was;  my  father  said, 
"That  is  the  lady  who  waited  on  you  at  lunch,"  much 
to  the  amusement  of  both. 


CPIAPTER  III 

EDUCATION  AND  OTHER  THINGS 

The  two  Adamses,  Charles  and  Henry,  have  each 
written  a  book  to  try  to  prove  that  they  had  no  edu- 
cation. I  knew  both  of  them  well  enough  to  know 
that  no  one  else  would  have  dared  to  make  such  an 
assertion.  The  Adamses  have  from  the  time  of  John 
Adams  loved  to  be  in  the  opposition,  and  I  venture  to 
say  that,  with  the  family  trait  of  one  always  contra- 
dicting the  other,  Henry  probably  said  that  Charles 
had  quite  as  good  an  education  as  was  good  for  him, 
and  Charles,  after  reading  "The  Education  of  Henry 
Adams,"  would  have  said  it  was  rubbish,  whereas  it 
is  an  uncommonly  edifying  book.  It  is  like  red  pepper; 
it  tickles  the  palate  without  giving  much  nourish- 
ment, and  leads  nowhere. 

I  once  passed  a  rainy  Sunday  at  The  Glades,  a 
summer  colony,  where  two  Adamses,  Jack  and 
Charles,  sat  all  the  afternoon  on  the  piazza  in  rock- 
ing-chairs, and  whatever  one  said  the  other  contra- 
dicted flatly. 

Education  ought  to  be  a  training  of  the  faculties 
and  not  the  mere  cramming  of  knowledge  into  a  boy, 
like  potatoes  into  a  sack.  Education  really  never 
ceases  from  the  time  we  are  born  until  we  die,  and  de- 


ERNEST  W.  LONGFELLOW 
June,  iS6i 


EDUCATION  AND  OTHER  THINGS     49 

pends  more  on  teaching  one  to  use  his  brain,  to  ac- 
quire knowledge  through  experience,  and  judgment 
of  what  facts  are  useful  and  what  a  waste  of  time. 
Many  people  never  seem  to  use  their  brains  or  to  have 
any  judgment.  We  learn  more  from  our  failures  than 
from  our  successes,  and  it  is  one  of  the  tragedies  of 
life  that  we  can  pass  on  such  a  small  part  of  our  ac- 
cumulated knowledge.  The  rising  generation  seldom 
thinks  much  of  the  wisdom  of  its  elders,  or  pays  much 
attention  to  its  admonitions,  but  has  to  learn  from  sad 
experience  for  itself. 

It  is  related  of  William  James  that  he  gave  a  frog 
to  his  first-born,  when  a  baby,  to  see  what  would  hap- 
pen. The  child  naturally  put  it  in  its  mouth;  which 
delighted  the  experimental  parent,  and  I  am  sure 
convinced  the  infant  that  frogs  in  the  uncooked  state 
were  not  desirable  food,  and  that  it  had  better  not 
try  it  again.  Hence  we  learn  by  experience! 

My  education  began  as  the  youngest  pupil  in  a 
dame's  school  in  an  old  gambrel-roofed  house  under 
the  shadow  of  the  Washington  Elm  in  Cambridge, 
where  the  Congregational  Church  now  stands.  There 
I  learned  to  make  my  pothooks  and  hangers,  and  I 
suppose  learned  my  three  R's.  Later  I  graduated  to 
a  boys'  school  on  Kirkland  Street,  kept  by  one  Am- 
brose Wellington.  I  was  a  good  boy,  but  I  can't  re- 
member that  I  learned  much  there.  I  chiefly  remem- 


50  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

ber  the  struggle  to  get  over  that  mile  between  our 
house  and  the  school  by  nine  o'clock,  especially  in 
winter  mornings  when  sometimes  the  snowdrifts  were 
waist-deep.  When  we  were  about  eleven  or  twelve, 
my  brother  and  I  persuaded  my  father  to  let  us  go  to 
Boston  to  a  school  kept  by  Mr.  George  Bradford  in 
the  old  Liberty  Block  on  Washington  Street,  oppo- 
site the  Boylston  Market.  Mr.  Bradford  was  a  very 
amiable  old  gentleman,  and  I  think  much  too  lenient, 
so  that  we  did  not  progress  very  fast.  Finally  he  gave 
up  the  school  and  I  was  transferred  to  Mr.  Dixwell's 
school  in  Boylston  Place.  There  we  all  had  to  work 
hard,  as  Mr.  Dixwell  was  a  stern  and  sarcastic  task- 
master, and  kept  the  under-teachers  up  to  their  work. 
It  was  there  that  I  heard  a  boy  translate  "  cum  summa 
diligentia"  into  "Caesar  came  into  Gaul  on  the  top 
of  a  diligence."  Owing  to  an  attack  of  measles  and 
the  ensuing  weak  eyes,  I  lost  nearly  the  whole  of  one 
winter,  and  so  fell  very  far  behind  my  class  in  Latin 
and  Greek.  I  was  not  very  good  at  Latin  or  Greek, 
and  could  never  see  the  good  of  learning  long  strings 
of  words  that  were  governed  by  the  ablative  or  of 
committing  to  memory  a  lot  of  Greek  irregular  verbs. 
It  is  that  kind  of  teaching  that  does  so  much  to  dis- 
courage boys  and  to  make  them  hate  their  studies 
instead  of  making  them  interested,  which  so  easily 
could  be  done  by  the  right  kind  of  teaching. 


EDUCATION  AND  OTHER  THINGS     51 

I  was  always  good  at  mathematics,  which  for  some 
reason  in  the  human  mind  never  goes  with  the  acquir- 
ing of  languages.  So,  having  been  two  years  in  the 
first  class  in  mathematics  and  the  second  or  third  in 
Latin  and  Greek,  I  took  the  bull  by  the  horns  and 
persuaded  my  father  to  let  me  go  to  the  Lawrence 
Scientific  School  instead  of  the  College.  It  seems  to 
me  that  mathematics  is  the  best  training  for  the  rea- 
soning faculties.  It  induces,  indeed  demands,  clear 
thinking,  and  makes  inexact  statements  and  sloppy 
reasoning  fatal.  It  was  at  this  time  that  I  made  my 
futile  effort  to  go  to  West  Point. 

Philosophical  speculation  may  be  excellent  gym- 
nastics for  the  mind,  but  I  think  it  largely  a  waste  of 
time.  What  we  want  are  concrete  facts,  and  not  theo- 
ries, as  to  what  might,  could,  or  should  be.  I  have 
always  had  a  horror  of  theorists.  I  have  seen  too 
many  artists  and  others  wrecked  on  the  reefs  of  theory. 
My  uncle,  Mr.  Appleton,  once  expressed  it  very  well 
in  telling  of  how  he  was  asked  by  his  professor  in 
college  to  explain  the  theory  of  the  billiard  ball.  He 
said,  "Confound  him!  I  could  n't  explain  that,  but  I 
could  give  him  seventy-five  out  of  a  hundred  at  bil- 
liards and  beat  him." 

I  had  the  good  fortune,  or  perhaps  the  misfortune, 
to  have  two  remarkable  scholars  in  my  class,  Edward 
Pickering,  afterwards  head  of  the  Harvard  Observa- 


52  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

tory  in  Cambridge,  and  John  Trowbridge,  later  Pro- 
fessor of  Physics  at  Harvard.  They  set  such  a  high 
standard  that  it  was  difficult  for  the  rest  of  us  to  keep 
up.  Pickering,  not  being  satisfied  with  the  usual  les- 
sons set  by  the  teacher,  used  to  ask  for  difficult  prob- 
lems besides.  The  result  was  that  I  got  my  degree 
only  by  the  skin  of  my  teeth.  Fortunately  for  me  I 
had  given  much  time  to  the  study  of  military  engi- 
neering, which  was  not  in  the  course,  and  handed  in, 
as  my  thesis  on  graduation,  an  elaborate  drawing 
of  a  semi-permanent  field  fortification,  which  much 
pleased  General  Eustis,  then  at  the  head  of  the  school. 

This  shows,  I  think,  that  if  I  had  been  allowed  to 
carry  out  my  ambition  of  going  to  West  Point,  I 
should  have  made  a  success  of  it.  I  may  add  that  in 
my  second  year  at  the  school  I  had  the  off"er,  among 
others,  of  being  made  a  second  lieutenant  in  an  en- 
gineer regiment  then  being  formed  by  the  Govern- 
ment, but  again  my  father  objected,  as  I  was  not 
of  age,  and  as  my  brother  was  in  the  cavalry  at 
the  front,  he  thought  one  son  risking  his  life  was 
enough. 

When  I  graduated,  in  the  summer  of  1865,  the  war 
was  over,  and,  owing  to  the  many  engineers  return- 
ing to  civil  life,  I  thought  the  chance  of  getting  em- 
ployment as  an  engineer  was  small,  so,  although  I 
had  my  degree  of  S.B.,  I  gave  up  the  idea  of  devoting 


EDUCATION  AND  OTHER  THINGS      53 

my  life  to  engineering,  and  decided  to  take  up  the 
study  of  art  instead. 

So  ended  my  education  at  school.  My  education 
by  experience  began  at  the  tender  age  of  four  and  a 
half,  when  my  father  and  mother  and  we  two  boys 
made  a  journey  to  Washington  in  the  spring  of  1850. 

Such  a  journey  then  was  much  more  of  an  affair 
than  it  Is  now,  and  of  course  to  children  It  was  a  mo- 
mentous experience.  Even  though  I  was  only  four 
and  a  half,  I  can  remember  now  that  we  drove  over  to 
Brighton  and  took  the  cars  there  instead  of  at  Boston, 
I  suppose  to  save  driving  Into  town.  I  distinctly  re- 
member a  high  flight  of  steps  that  had  to  be  descended 
to  reach  the  track.  We  had  to  pass  the  first  night  at 
Springfield.  When  we  reached  New  York  the  follow- 
ing day,  the  train  was  drawn  Into  the  city  by  horses 
as  far  as  what  Is  now  Madison  Square  Garden,  which 
was  then  the  site  of  the  station,  and.  Indeed,  remained 
so  until  1870,  I  believe.  We  put  up  at  the  old  Astor 
House  and  my  father  gave  me  a  picture  of  the  hotel 
with  our  windows  marked  In  red. 

I  cannot  remember  much  about  our  journey 
through  Philadelphia  and  Baltimore,  or  our  arrival 
in  Washington.  We  put  up  at  a  hotel  with  a  veranda 
running  around  the  upper  story  as  well  as  one  below. 
I  think  It  was  called  the  National  Hotel. 

Henry  Clay  was  staying  In  the  same  house,  and 


54  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

my  father  saw  much  of  him,  but  I  do  not  remember 
him;  I  remember  only  that  somebody  gave  my 
brother  and  myself  tack-hammers,  with  which  we 
amused  ourselves  by  hammering  tacks  into  the  floor 
of  the  verandas.  How  trivial  things  stick  in  the  memory 
when  much  more  important  things  vanish!  However,! 
distinctly  remember  being  taken  to  see  President  Tay- 
lor and  his  shaking  hands  with  me,  tot  that  I  was. 

There  is  nothing  unusual  in  the  life  of  most  boys. 
Like  others,  I  played  marbles  in  the  spring,  —  why 
marbles  are  played  by  boys  only  in  the  spring  I  don't 
know,  —  bathed  and  boated  in  the  summer,  played 
baseball,  football,  and  hockey  in  the  autumn,  and 
skated  and  played  hockey  on  the  ice  on  Fresh  Pond 
or  smaller  ponds  in  the  winter. 

I  found  it  difficult  to  learn  to  swim,  I  remember, 
because  when  I  was  quite  young  my  nurse  used  to 
carry  me  out  in  her  arms  and  duck  me  bodily,  which 
was  a  cruel  thing  to  do,  and  gave  me  a  horror  of  hav- 
ing my  head  under  water.  The  result  was  that,  in 
learning  to  swim,  as  soon  as  my  head  went  under,  as 
it  was  sure  to  do,  I  struggled  to  stand  up.  Finally  I 
was  so  disgusted  with  myself  that  I  boldly  launched 
myself  from  a  rock,  where  I  knew  the  water  was  over 
my  head,  and  swam  to  another  rock  at  some  distance 
because  I  had  to,  or  drown:  after  that  I  had  no 
trouble. 


EDUCATION  AND  OTHER  THINGS      55 

When  I  was  quite  young  I  came  very  near  drown- 
ing in  Charles  River.  There  was  a  place  where  the 
boys  all  bathed,  a  la  Cupid,  where  there  was  a  shelv- 
ing beach  and  a  few  rocks.  I  had  waded  in  till  the 
water  was  up  to  my  waist  or  a  little  more,  when  sud- 
denly the  current,  which  was  quite  strong,  took  me 
off  my  feet  and  I  was  rapidly  drifting  downstream 
with  my  legs  kicking  in  space  as  it  were.  I  could  not 
swim  and  the  other  boys  did  not  notice  anything.  I 
did  not  call  out,  but  realized  that  I  was  going  under 
and  wondered  what  would  happen  next.  What  hap- 
pened was  that  my  feet  struck  a  rock  and,  pushed  by 
the  current,  I  stood  up,  with  the  water  up  to  my  chin, 
and  was  able  to  make  a  spring  into  more  shallow 
water.  It  all  happened  in  a  moment,  but  it  was  cer- 
tainly a  lucky  escape.  I  excelled  at  football  and  skat- 
ing, and  was  a  very  fast  runner,  the  fastest  in  Dix- 
well's  School  when  I  was  there,  and  I  could  dodge  on 
the  ice,  like  a  terrier,  when  we  played  hockey. 

I  was  also  fond  of  rowing  and  had  much  practice 
at  Nahant,  where  I  won  a  number  of  races  from  boys 
of  my  own  age  or  older.  While  at  the  Scientific 
School  we  formed  a  six-oar  crew,  in  which  I  some- 
times pulled  stroke,  but  more  often  bow.  I  was  not 
heavy  enough,  however,  —  weighing  only  one  hun- 
dred and  twenty  pounds,  —  for  entering  races,  in 
which  the  crew  later  distinguished  itself.    I  have  al- 


56  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

ways  kept  up  rowing,  and  have  rowed  a  great  deal  on 
the  ItaHan  lakes  and  sometimes  on  the  Thames,  in 
England. 

When  tennis  was  introduced  into  America  about 
1880,  I  was  thirty-five;  rather  late  to  learn  a  new 
game.  I  became,  however,  quite  expert  for  my  age, 
and  won  the  championship  of  our  tennis  club  in  Cam- 
bridge, in  the  singles,  doubles,  and  mixed  doubles. 
At  a  tournament  at  the  St.  George's  Cricket  Club  of 
Staten  Island,  where  there  were  many  good  players, 
I  was  beaten  only  by  the  winner  of  the  tournament, 
so  that  although  I  do  not  claim  to  have  been  a  crack, 
I  was  no  duffer.  I  even  had  the  honor  of  having  had  a 
man  tell  me  he  used  to  come  out  to  Cambridge  from 
Boston  to  see  me  play.  I  played  often  at  Nahant, 
with  Mr.  Sears,  who  was  national  champion  for  seven 
years,  and  although  he  could  give  me  fifteen  and 
beat  me  easily,  it  was  good  practice. 

In  the  summer  of  1852,  we  deserted  Nahant,  and 
went  to  Newport,  where  we  stayed  at  the  Cliff  House. 
Mr.  Appleton,  who  was  with  us,  and  who  had  been  a 
great  football  player  in  his  youth,  performed  the  re- 
markable feat  of  kicking  a  football  over  the  hotel, 
much  to  our  boyish  delight  and  admiration.  I  re- 
member there  was  a  remarkable  character  at  New- 
port called  Count  Gurowski,  a  Russian  with  only  one 
eye,  who  was  supposed  to  be  a  Russian  spy.  He  came 


EDUCATION  AND  OTHER  THINGS     57 

often  to  the  hotel,  and  I  am  sure,  if  not  a  spy,  was  a 
Russian  agent  of  some  sort.  I  remember  his  turning 
up  in  Washington  during  the  Civil  War,  and  coming 
to  see  my  father,  when  we  were  there  to  hunt  for  my 
brother  when  he  was  wounded.  He  said  he  had  been 
much  annoyed  by  a  dog  in  a  neighboring  yard  that 
barked  at  night.  But  he  said  he  had  stopped  all  that; 
he  had  thrown  him  some  poisoned  meat,  and  that  was 
the  end  of  the  dog.  Pleasant  for  the  owner  of  the  dog! 

There  was  quite  an  interesting  group  of  people  in 
the  Cliff  House  that  summer,  among  others  Julia 
Ward  Howe.  We  have  a  daguerreotype  in  which  she 
figures,  also  my  father  in  a  marvellous  tall  hat,  and  a 
man  by  the  name  of  Costa,  I  think,  who  had  had  an 
extraordinary  adventure.  He  had  been  on  a  steamer 
on  the  Hudson  which  was  burned,  with  great  loss  of 
life.  Being  a  good  swimmer,  he  rescued  a  number  of 
people,  and  then,  being  exhausted,  sat  down  on  a 
trunk  that  had  been  washed  ashore.  To  his  aston- 
ishment he  found  it  was  his  own  trunk  that  some 
one  had  thrown  overboard,  and  he  was  therefore 
able  to  change  and  put  on  dry  clothes. 

Our  life  at  Nahant  in  the  summer  was  a  very 
simple  one.  The  house  that  my  father  bought  was 
known  as  the  Wetmore  Cottage;  it  was  rather  a  cheap 
affair,  and  poorly  furnished.  My  uncle,  Mr.  Apple- 
ton,  owned  a  share  in  it,  and  formed  part  of  our 


58  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

household,  much  to  our  deHght.  He  Hved  in  a  semi- 
detached L,  where  he  had  his  own  suite  of  rooms,  and 
where  he  spent  much  of  his  time  painting,  mostly  on 
rounded  pebbles  for  paper-weights,  which  was  quite 
a  fad  with  him 

As  I  have  said,  the  house  was  on  the  southern  side 
of  Nahant,  on  a  triangular  plot  close  to  the  water,  and 
therefore  on  hot  days  got  the  refreshing  southwest 
wind  directly  from  the  ocean.  It  had  a  piazza  run- 
ning entirely  round  it,  and  on  the  back  piazza  over- 
looking the  bay  my  father  passed  a  great  deal  of  his 
time.  The  house  has  since  been  burned. 

We  kept  rowboats  just  below,  and  my  uncle  had  a 
sloop  yacht  called  the  Alice  after  my  eldest  sister.  He 
was  very  fond  of  yachting,  but  knew  nothing  about 
sailing  a  boat  himself.  Sometimes  he  would  take  the 
helm,  but  the  skipper  would  surreptitiously  do  the 
steering.  I  have  even  known  Mr.  Appleton  to  stand 
looking  over  the  stem  thinking  he  was  directing  the 
boat,  when  fortunately  another  hand  was  doing  it. 

We  enjoyed  many  sails  on  the  Alice,  and  also 
cruised  as  far  east  as  Mount  Desert,  along  the  beauti- 
ful Maine  coast  and  among  its  many  lovely  islands. 
Many  days  we  were  held  up  by  fog,  but  with  a  merry 
party  what  did  that  matter.^  On  one  of  these  cruises, 
when  we  had  gone  on  shore  at  the  Isles  of  Shoals  to 
pass  the  evening  dancing  at  the  hotel,  we  came  near 


EDUCATION  AND  OTHER  THINGS     59 

having  a  serious  accident.  When  we  came  to  the  shore 
at  the  nearest  point  to  where  our  yacht  was  anchored, 
which,  as  there  was  no  good  anchorage  near  the  hotel, 
was  at  some  distance,  we  found  the  wind  had  risen 
and  there  was  quite  a  sea  on.  We  had  difficulty  in 
making  the  man  on  the  yacht  hear  our  hail,  as  the 
wind  was  directly  on  shore.  Finally  the  skipper  came, 
but  as  it  was  very  dark  and  the  waves  high,  he  could 
not  come  very  near  to  the  rocks,  and  we  had  to  make 
a  flying  leap  into  the  boat,  as  best  we  could.  As  there 
were  five  of  us  besides  the  man,  it  was  a  rather  heavy 
load  for  the  small  boat,  and  as  each  one  leaped  into 
the  boat  he  let  in  some  water,  so  that  as  we  started  off 
we  had  quite  a  lot  washing  about  our  feet.  As  we 
went  on,  the  waves  broke  more  and  more  over  the 
side,  and  in  spite  of  our  bailing,  it  soon  became  evi- 
dent that  we  should  be  swamped  before  long. 

It  was  not  a  pleasant  prospect;  in  that  dark  night 
and  choppy  sea,  the  chances  of  being  able  to  swim  to 
safety  were  slight.  I  am  proud  to  say  that  whatever 
we  felt,  not  one  of  us  showed  the  slightest  sign  of  fear, 
but  we  all  sat  perfectly  still,  except  for  bailing  the  boat. 
We  shouted  to  the  yacht  in  vain;  as  we  had  the  only 
small  boat,  those  on  board  could  have  done  nothing, 
even  if  they  had  heard  us.  Fortunately  some  fisher- 
men in  a  boat  not  far  off  heard  our  cries  and  came  to 
our  rescue,  just  as  we  were  about  to  sink.   As  they 


6o  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

came  alongside  and  pulled  us  aboard,  our  boat  was 
awash,  and  in  another  minute  we  should  have  had  to 
swim  for  it.  We  were  wet  to  our  waists  as  it  was. 

The  Shoals  was  a  charming  resort  in  those  days 
with  Mrs.  Thaxter  as  presiding  genius.  She  had  been 
born  on  the  island  and  had  never,  I  believe,  been  to 
the  mainland,  or  seen  a  horse  even,  till  she  married 
Mr.  Thaxter  when  she  was  sixteen. 

She  was  a  very  bright  woman  and  wrote  poems  of 
great  beauty,  especially  about  her  beloved  island  and 
the  sea.  She  loved  music,  and  surrounded  herself 
with  musicians  and  artists,  and  the  evenings  passed 
in  her  cottage,  with  its  wild  garden,  were  a  great 
treat.  Alas!  those  days  are  no  more.  Mrs.  Thaxter 
has  passed  away,  and  the  hotel  over  which  her  father 
and  then  her  brothers  presided  was  burned,  not  to  be 
rebuilt. 

In  1866,  my  brother,  Captain  Clark  (a  neighbor), 
and  Harry  Stanfield,  with  a  crew  of  three  sailors, 
crossed  the  Atlantic  in  the  Alice.  This  was  a  very 
daring  adventure  to  take  in  a  sloop  of  only  twenty- 
eight  or  thirty  tons,  about  the  size  of  Columbus's 
smallest  ship,  but  they  arrived  safely  after  a  quick 
run  of  eighteen  days.  I  have  always  thought  that  it 
was  a  much  more  remarkable  feat  for  Columbus  to 
get  back  than  to  go  out,  as  going  he  had  the  trade 
winds  with   him.    My  brother  afterwards   crossed 


EDUCATION  AND  OTHER  THINGS      6i 

twice  in  a  yacht  with  James  Gordon  Bennett,  with 
whom  he  often  went  yachting. 

Mr.  Appleton  was  very  fond  of  chowder,  so  we  had 
it  every  day  at  Nahant.  And  such  chowder  I  have 
never  tasted  since.  As  we  all  had  splendid  appetites 
from  sea  bathing  and  being  in  the  open  air  all  day,  we 
never  tired  of  it. 

Nahant  was  dubbed  "Cold  Roast  Boston"  be- 
cause it  was  the  favorite  summer  resort  of  the  elite  of 
that  city.  It  is  said  to  have  been  purchased  from  the 
Indians  for  a  suit  of  clothes,  though  why  Indians  were 
foolish  enough  to  want  the  white  man's  ugly  habili- 
ments it  is  hard  to  see;  it  would  have  been  more 
natural  for  them  to  sell  their  birthright  for  a  mess 
of  pottage. 

Nahant  was  probably  originally  an  island  that  the 
waves  and  tides  had  turned  into  a  peninsula  by  form- 
ing the  long  strip  of  sand  connecting  it  with  the  main- 
land. The  favorite  way  of  reaching  it  was  by  steam- 
boat from  Boston,  but  people  also  could  take  a  train 
to  Lynn  and  drive  across  the  long  beach  in  a  kind  of 
open  omnibus  called,  in  local  parlance,  a  barge.  Mr. 
Appleton  once  invited  Mrs.  Church,  the  wife  of  the 
artist,  to  come  to  Nahant,  and  told  her  she  would  find 
a  barge  at  Lynn  to  bring  her  across.  She  naturally 
thought  Nahant  must  be  an  island,  and  when  she 
reached  Lynn  looked  about  in  vain  for  some  sort  of 


62  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

boat;  having,  I  suppose,  visions  of  a  gorgeous  craft, 
something  Hke  Cleopatra's  barge,  with  silken  sails, 
etc.  It  was  a  great  come-down  to  be  shown  the  lowly 
omnibus  and  told  that  that  was  the  barge. 

In  the  early  days  of  which  I  am  writing  there  was  a 
fine  large  hotel  there,  kept  by  Paran  Stevens,  whose 
widow,  afterwards,  thanks  to  her  large  fortune,  be- 
came a  leader  in  London  society,  and  whose  daughter 
married  Lord  Paget.  The  hotel  occupied  large  grounds 
at  the  eastern  end  of  Nahant  and  was  very  fashionable 
at  one  time,  and  became  so  overcrowded  one  year  that 
Mr.  Stevens  added  a  large  L.  The  very  next  year, 
for  no  apparent  reason,  the  current  changed,  and  each 
year  fewer  and  fewer  people  came,  until  finally  the 
hotel  was  closed.  A  few  years  later  it  was  set  on  fire 
by  somebody,  and  burned  to  the  ground.  We  boys 
had  always  hoped  to  have  the  courage  to  set  it  on  fire 
and  see  it  blaze,  and  I  remember  the  regret  I  felt  that 
some  one  else  had  had  that  joy,  and  that  we  had  left 
Nahant  the  day  before  it  happened.  The  estate  was 
afterwards  bought  by  Mr.  Lodge,  the  father  of  Sen- 
ator Lodge,  and  the  Senator  has  his  house  on  the  beau- 
tiful grounds  that  formerly  belonged  to  the  hotel. 

One  day  another  boy  and  I  had  lost  our  ball  over 
the  fence  of  a  triangular  piece  of  ground  that  seemed 
to  belong  to  nobody,  not  far  from  the  entrance  to 
these  grounds.  As  I  climbed  over  the  fence  to  get  the 


EDUCATION  AND  OTHER  THINGS     63 

ball,  one  of  the  pickets  came  away  in  my  hands;  after 
that  as  we  walked  along  we  occasionally  pulled  at  the 
pickets  to  see  if  any  others  were  rotten,  meaning  no 
harm.  Suddenly  descended  upon  us  a  man  in  a  furious 
rage  and  struck  at  me  with  a  heavy  cane.  It  was  Mr. 
Lodge,  who  owned  the  land  without  our  knowing  it. 
I  put  up  my  arm  to  ward  off  the  blow,  and  my  left 
arm  became  helpless.  I  thought  he  had  broken  it.  He 
then  turned  on  the  other  boy,  but  fortunately  a 
neighbor  who  had  seen  the  occurrence  rushed  out  of 
his  house  and  saved  us  from  further  chastisement. 
Every  one  was  very  indignant  that  Mr.  Lodge  should 
have  so  far  lost  his  temper  as  to  treat  young  boys  in  such 
a  brutal  manner.  I  had  to  carry  my  arm  in  a  sling  for 
a  week  or  more;  perhaps  I  carried  It  so  a  little  longer 
than  necessary  to  excite  sympathy.  What  wonder! 
My  brother  vowed  vengeance  on  Mr.  Lodge,  and 
one  night  carried  ofT  the  revolving  stile  that  pre- 
vented Mr.  Lodge's  cows  from  wandering  from  his 
place.  He  hid  the  stile  under  his  bed  for  some  days, 
and  then  took  it  out  to  sea  in  his  boat,  and  cast  it 
overboard.  Mr.  Lodge  was  naturally  very  angry  at 
having  his  cows  let  out,  and  as  they  wandered  over  to 
Lynn,  it  was  some  days  before  he  got  them  back.  He 
issued  a  reward  for  the  miscreant  who  had  stolen  the 
stile  and  let  them  escape;  but  my  brother  was  never 
found  out. 


64  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

Not  far  from  us,  at  Nahant,  lived  a  family  of  seven 
boys,  with  whom  we  had  much  to  do.  Their  father, 
Mr,  Curtis,  called  his  house  "The  House  of  the  Seven 
Gabbles."  His  oldest  son,  Mr.  Dan  Curtis,  enjoyed 
the  distinction  of  being  one  of  the  two  most  noted  wits 
in  Boston  at  that  time,  his  rival  being  Mr.  Appleton. 
Many  of  their  sayings  have  become  classic,  and  the 
sayings  of  one  are  often  attributed  to  the  other.  It 
was  Mr.  Curtis,  not  Mr.  Appleton,  who  called  Na- 
hant "Cold  Roast  Boston,"  and  it  was  he  who  one 
cold  winter  day  came  into  the  Studio  Building  on 
Tremont  Street  and  said  he  wished  some  one  would 
tether  a  shorn  lamb  on  the  corner  of  Winter  Street,  a 
peculiarly  exposed  and  windy  corner.  I  have  had  the 
temerity  to  add  that  they  could  have  found  plenty 
of  shorn  lambs  on  State  Street,  not  far  away. 

Mr.  Dan  Curtis  had  the  poor  taste  once  to  pull 
the  nose  of  a  gentleman  on  the  train,  and  the  misfor- 
tune to  select  a  lawyer  for  the  experiment.  The  result 
was  that  he  was  fined  in  court  for  assault  and  bat- 
tery, and,  being  a  pugnacious  individual,  he  "refused 
to  pay  the  fine,  so  had  to  spend  a  time  in  jail.  After  he 
got  out,  he  and  his  wife,  who  was  English,  were  so  dis- 
gusted with  a  town  that  interfered  with  the  liberty  to 
pull  noses,  that  they  shook  the  dust  of  Boston  from 
their  feet,  and  went  to  live  in  Venice,  where  there  was 
no  dust. 


THOMAS  GOLD  APPLETON 

About  1880 


EDUCATION  AND  OTHER  THINGS     65 

At  the  time  they  were  living  there,  Don  Carlos,  the 
pretender  to  the  throne  of  Spain,  was  living  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  Grand  Canal.  On  one  very  hot 
summer  day,  Mr.  Curtis  and  some  friends  were  going 
down  the  canal  in  their  gondola  and  espied  Don  Car- 
los and  friends  sitting  on  their  balcony,  evidently  very 
hot.  Mr.  Curtis  immediately  said,  "Look  at  Don 
Carlos  and  his  friends  conspiring  at  every  pore." 
Once  at  the  opera  there  was  a  party  of  Russians  in  a 
near-by  box;  one  of  the  ladies  wore  a  very  decoUetee 
dress,  and  Mr.  Curtis  was  asked  if  he  knew  who  she 
was.  He  said  that  she  must  be  the  Princess  Chimezoff, 
nee  Orloif . 

Mr.  Appleton's  most  quoted  bon  mot  was  that  "all 
good  Americans  when  they  die  go  to  Paris."  Mr. 
Appleton,  however,  said  so  many  good  things  that  it 
is  impossible  to  quote  many  things  that  would  give 
any  idea  of  the  brilliance  of  his  conversation.  I  have 
known  him  to  be  more  amusing  at  breakfast,  with 
only  some  children  as  audience,  than  when  he  had 
more  important  listeners.  He  simply  could  not  help 
being  original  and  funny;  not  like  some  humorists  who 
have  to  have  an  appreciative  audience.  Mark  Twain, 
for  instance,  when  I  have  met  him,  seemed  to  have 
the  air  that  something  was  expected  of  him,  and  that 
he  must  play  up  and  be  funny  to  order.  Miss  Hale  in 
her  life  of  Mr.  Appleton  has  quoted  some  of  his  say- 


^  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

ings,  but  failed  to  convey  any  idea  of  his  ready  wit. 

There  was  in  Boston  at  one  time  a  very  plain  spin- 
ster of  uncertain  age,  by  the  name  of  Joy.  Mr.  Apple- 
ton  used  to  say  of  her,  "A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy 
forever."  He  was  once  at  a  wedding  reception  where 
no  wine  was  served;  when  he  asked  the  waiter  for 
some  champagne,  and  was  told  there  was  none,  he  re- 
marked, "Ah!  got  ahead  of  our  Saviour,  have  they?" 
—  referring,  of  course,  to  the  marriage  of  Cana. 

Some  one  once  asked  him  if  he  knew  who  the  lady 
was  that  was  driving  with  Mr.  Hearn ;  he  said  he  sup- 
posed it  was  "his'n."  When  one  of  us  children  had 
lost  a  tooth  he  would  say,  "  Sharper  than  a  serpent's 
fang,  it  is,  to  have  a  toothless  child."  Also  he  was 
fond  of  saying,  "Man  wants  but  little  here  below,  but 
wants  that  little  Longfellow." 

Mr.  Appleton  belonged  to  a  club  of  artists  and  ama- 
teurs, in  Boston,  called  the  Allston  Club,  which  had 
a  short  and  struggling  existence.  After  it  had  been 
going  on  for  ten  years,  one  of  its  members  proposed 
that  they  have  their  portraits  painted  in  a  group. 
"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Appleton,  "Boors  carousing,  after 
Teniers,"  which  killed  the  project.  Shortly  after  that 
they  were  persuaded  by  another  member  to  purchase 
a  large  picture  by  Courbet,  called  the  "Quarry," 
which  caused  the  club  to  go  into  bankruptcy.  This 
picture  is  now  in  the  Boston  Museum  of  Fine  Arts. 


EDUCATION  AND  OTHER  THINGS     67 

The  Reverend  Dr.  Huntington,  then  a  Unitarian, 
was  at  one  time  preacher  at  Harvard  College,  and 
induced  all  the  college  people  to  subscribe  to  a  chime 
of  bells  for  the  chapel.  While  the  bells  were  being 
made  in  Europe,  Dr.  Huntington  went  over  to  the 
Episcopal  Church,  and  when  the  bells  were  finished,  he 
took  the  bells,  which  had  been  ordered  in  his  name, 
with  him,  and  the  chimes  were  set  up  in  Christ  Church, 
Cambridge,  instead  of  in  the  College  Chapel.  Mr. 
Appleton  thereupon  remarked  that  the  bells  would 
say,  "Turn  again,  Huntington,  Bishop  of  Boston." 
As  a  matter  of  fact  he  did  become  the  Bishop  of  West- 
em  New  York. 

For  a  number  of  years,  while  we  were  at  Nahant, 
my  grandfather  Appleton  had  a  cottage  on  Ocean 
Street,  Lynn.  One  day  my  brother,  on  one  of  his  wild 
expeditions,  got  himself  upset  from  a  dory  on  the 
beach  below  the  cottage,  and  was  fitted  out  with  dry 
clothes  and  an  old  pair  of  slippers,  and  sent  home. 
When  the  clothes  and  slippers  were  returned,  there 
was  found  pinned  to  the  bundle  the  following  lines  in 
my  father's  well-known  handwriting : 

"Slippers  tha4;  perchance  another, 
Sailing  o'er  the  Bay  of  Lynn, 
Some  forlorn  and  shipwrecked  brother, 
Seeing,  may  purloin  agin!" 


CHAPTER  IV 

WAR 

An  event  of  importance  in  our  life  was  the  panic  of 
1857,  when  everybody  felt  poor  and  had  to  economize. 
We  had  to  give  up  horses,  which  we  had  always  had, 
and  our  butler;  and  I  distinctly  remember  how  we 
children  were  admonished  not  to  take  any  more  on 
our  plates  than  we  could  eat,  even  at  my  grandfather's 
and  Aunt  Sam's  in  Boston,  whom  we  had  always  sup- 
posed to  be  very  rich. 

In  the  years  before  1861  there  was  much  talk  pro 
and  con  about  slavery  and  whether  the  South  would 
secede,  in  which  my  brother  and  I  were  old  enough  to 
take  an  interest.  All  my  boy  friends,  pretty  nearly, 
were  of  Whig  families  and  opposed  to  the  election 
of  Lincoln,  and  said  dreadful  things  about  the  rail- 
splitter  and  Charles  Sumner  and  the  abolitionists,  so 
that  we  had  violent  debates  and  discussions. 

In  the  spring  of  1861,  when  the  storm  burst,  and 
the  rebels  fired  on  Sumter,  the  sentiment  changed, 
however.  I  remember  well  the  excitement  of  the  first 
troops  going  off  in  Governor  Andrew's  famous  brown 
overcoats  and  their  being  fired  upon  in  Baltimore,  and 
how  many  of  the  older  boys  we  knew  well  enlisted, 


WAR  69 

and  all  the  drilling  on  the  Common.  I  was,  alas,  too 
young  to  go,  but  we  were  all  filled  with  the  desire,  and 
finally  my  brother,  in  the  autumn  a  year  later,  ran 
away  when  he  was  only  eighteen,  and  enlisted  in  a 
Massachusetts  battery.  Later,  through  the  offices  of 
Major  Curtis,  of  the  First  Massachusetts  Cavalry, 
who  was  engaged  to  our  aunt,  he  was  given  b}''  Gov- 
ernor Andrew  a  commission  in  that  regiment  as 
second  lieutenant. 

It  was  in  the  summer  of  1861  that  my  mother  died, 
from  burns  from  a  match  setting  fire  to  her  light  dress 
while  she  was  sealing  some  packages  for  my  sisters.  I 
was  staying  at  Nahant  at  the  time,  but  had  been  up  to 
Cambridge  to  lunch  that  day,  and,  as  I  was  stepping 
on  the  horse-car  to  go  into  town  to  take  the  boat  to 
Nahant,  my  mother  drove  by  in  a  carriage  and  waved 
her  hand  to  me.  That  was  the  last  I  saw  of  her  alive. 
She  met  with  the  accident  that  afternoon  and  the 
next  morning  was  dead.  This  was  my  first  great 
grief,  and  my  first  acquaintance  with  death,  that  great 
mystery.  My  father  was  badly  burned  while  trying 
to  save  her,  and  I  remember  his  lying  in  bed  and 
holding  up  his  poor  bandaged  hands  and  murmuring, 
"Oh,  why  could  I  not  save  her?"  It  was  a  terrible 
blow  to  him,  from  which  he  never  recovered,  as  he 
recorded  in  his  poem  "The  Cross  of  Snow."  ^ 

^  See  Life  of  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow,  by  Samuel  Longfellow. 
The  poem  was  never  published  in  the  collected  editions,  as  being 


too  mtimate. 


70  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

In  June,  1862,  we  made  up  a  party  to  visit  Niagara, 
I  think  principally  to  divert  my  father.  There  were, 
besides  my  father,  my  aunt.  Miss  Appleton,  and  two 
friends  of  hers,  Miss  Beebe  and  Miss  Shattuck,  my 
brother  Charles,  and  myself.  As  the  girls  were  several 
years  older  than  we  boys,  they  made  a  good  deal  of  us, 
and  we  had  a  very  merry  time.  We  stopped  at  Utica 
to  visit  Trenton  Falls,  which  at  that  time  had  to  be 
done  by  stage-coach.  My  father,  knowing  nothing 
about  the  politics  of  the  Albany  papers,  had  bought 
an  Albany  "Argus";  as  we  stopped  at  a  way  station 
to  change  horses,  he  gave  it  to  one  of  the  loafers  sit- 
ting about.  The  man  received  it  rather  grudgingly 
and  said,  "Hum!  Democrats  abroad! "  which  amused 
us  very  much,  as  the  feeling  against  the  Democrats, 
who  were  mostly  opposed  to  the  war,  was  very  strong 
with  us, 

Trenton  Falls  was  then  not  so  much  visited,  and 
was  not  so  overrun  by  wedding  couples  as  I  found  it 
on  a  later  visit,  when  it  was  quite  embarrassing  as 
at  every  turn  you  came  on  couples  embracing.  Its 
amber  water,  foaming  and  tumbling  between  its  high 
wooded  cliffs,  is  very  beautiful. 

From  there  we  went  to  Niagara,  where  we  slept 
with  the  thunder  of  the  falls  in  our  ears,  and  especially 
enjoyed  the  rapids  above  the  falls,  where  you  could 
get  close  to  the  rushing  water.   We  returned  to  Bos- 


WAR  71 

ton  by  way  of  Toronto,  the  rapids  of  the  St.  Law- 
rence, and  Montreal.  I  think  the  trip  did  my  father 
good,  and  the  merriment  of  us  young  people  must 
have  cheered  him  up  and  distracted  his  mind  from  his 
great  loss. 

As  was  natural,  my  father  was  much  upset  by  my 
brother's  running  away  and  becoming  a  soldier  so 
young.  And  I  know  he  had  the  never-ceasing  anxiety 
that  he  might  be  killed  or  wounded  that  all  parents 
suffered  at  that  time.  Every  morning  he  opened  the 
paper  with  fear  and  trembling,  fearing  that  he  might 
see  his  name  in  those  terrible  lists  after  great  battles 
that  seemed  to  be  always  going  against  the  North. 
Finally  he  got  word  that  he  had  camp  fever  and 
would  be  invalided  North,  and  as  he  passed  most  of 
the  summer  of  1863  with  us  at  Nahant,  he  escaped 
the  action  of  Aldie,  in  which  his  regiment  was  severely 
handled,  and  the  subsequent  Battle  of  Gettysburg. 
Shortly  after  he  rejoined  his  regiment,  he  was  the 
officer  of  the  day,  at,  I  think,  Culpeper  Court-House, 
when  he  found  the  lady  of  the  house,  in  the  yard  in 
which  his  men  were  stationed,  was  engaged  in  asking 
them  questions  and  trying  to  learn  the  disposition 
of  the  Northern  forces,  evidently  to  send  word 
through  the  lines  to  the  rebels.  My  brother  politely 
asked  the  lady,  who  turned  out  to  be  the  wife  of 
Governor  Wise  of  Virginia,  to  stop  asking  the  men 


72  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

questions  and  retire  into  the  house.  She  indignantly 
refused,  so  my  brother  told  her  that  if  she  did  not  re- 
tire he  would  have  his  men  carry  her  bodily  into  the 
house.  She  was  then  furious,  and  demanded  his  name, 
and  when  she  found  on  further  inquiry  that  he  was 
the  son  of  the  poet,  she  said,  as  she  finally  flounced 
into  the  house,  that  she  would  never  read  any  more 
of  his  father's  poems  as  long  as  she  lived. 

In  the  Mine  Run  Campaign,  shortly  after,  my 
brother  was  badly  wounded  through  both  lungs.  He 
was  out  in  the  thick  woods  of  the  wilderness  near 
Good  Hope  Church  trying  to  connect  the  skirmish 
line  that  had  been  broken.  His  men  were  dismounted 
and  acting  as  skirmishers,  and  he  himself  was  carry- 
ing a  gun,  when  he  saw  two  men  in  grey.  As  he  took 
aim  at  one,  another  farther  to  the  left  fired  at  him  and 
the  ball  passed  under  his  shoulder-blades  and  through 
both  lungs  as  his  arms  were  thrown  forward  in  the 
act  of  firing.  They  shouted  that  they  had  got  him, 
so  he  plunged  through  the  thick  undergrowth  with 
the  rebels  after  him,  and  then  dodged  sideways  to 
a  road,  where  some  of  his  men  fortunately  saw  him 
fall,  and  brought  him  in  and  put  him  in  the  pulpit  of 
the  church.  Some  newspaper-man  saw  him  there, 
covered  with  blood,  and  telegraphed  my  father  that 
his  son  was  dangerously  wounded  in  the  face. 

We  received  the  telegram  while  at  lunch,  and  my 


WAR  73 

father  and  I  immediately  started  for  Washington  by 
the  Fall  River  boat.  There  were  no  staterooms  nor 
even  berths  to  be  had,  so  we  had  to  sit  up  in  arm- 
chairs all  night  in  the  saloon.  When  we  reached 
Washington,  we  could  get  no  news  of  my  brother  or 
of  his  whereabouts.  Dr.  Knapp,  of  the  Sanitary  Com- 
mission, did  his  best  to  help.  At  the  War  Ofhce  a 
supercilious  clerk  said,  in  an  airy  manner,  that  there 
had  been  no  battle,  that  there  were  only  a  little  over 
a  thousand  killed  and  wounded  in  the  advance.  We 
were  told,  however,  that  there  was  a  train  of  wounded 
expected  at  Alexandria  the  next  day,  and  that  he 
might  be  in  that.  So  we  journeyed  down  the  river  to 
that  point,  but  he  was  not  there.  After  two  days  of 
anxiety  we  were  told  he  was  probably  in  a  train  that 
was  expected  that  evening  at  the  station  on  the  Wash- 
ington side  of  the  Long  Bridge.  Sowewent  there  and 
waited  and  waited  at  a  little  tumble-down  station 
with  a  telegraph  clicking  away,  and  I  thought,  if  there 
were  important  messages  going  through,  how  easy  for 
any  of  the  loafers  or  spies  sitting  round  to  read  them 
off.  Finally  after  a  two  hours'  wait  a  train  of  freight 
cars  came  in,  crammed  with  wounded,  lying  or  sitting 
on  the  straw-covered  floors.  Pretty  hard  going  for 
wounded  men,  officers  as  well  as  privates ;  not  even  a 
day  coach.  As  the  poor  wrecks  were  lifted  out,  we 
finally  came  upon  my  brother.    A  more  forlorn,  be- 


74  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

draggled,  and  wretched  being  It  would  be  hard  to 
imagine.  His  wound  had  not  been  dressed  for  three 
days,  and  before  reaching  the  train  he  had  been 
bumped  and  banged  over  bad  roads  for  two  days  in 
an  ambulance,  with  hardly  anything  to  eat  or  drink. 
How  those  men  lived  through  it,  it  is  hard  to  see; 
some  did  not. 

After  we  had  got  him  to  the  hotel  and  given  him  a 
bath,  and  had  a  doctor  dress  his  wound  and  put  him 
to  bed,  he  became  quite  cheerful.  He  said  that  the 
one  thing  he  thought  of  when  he  was  wounded  was 
the  sense  of  relief  that  he  no  longer  had  any  responsi- 
bility about  his  men.  Owing  to  the  shortage  of  offi- 
cers, he,  a  second  lieutenant,  only  nineteen,  had  been 
in  charge  of  his  company,  and  the  responsibility 
weighed  heavily  upon  him.  His  wound  was  so  severe 
that  although  he  eventually  recovered  his  health,  he 
was  not  able  to  go  back  into  the  service  before  the 
war  was  over. 

A  curious  thing  in  regard  to  his  efforts  to  enlist 
when  he  ran  away  from  home  was  that  he  tried  first  to 
enlist  in  the  regular  army,  but  they  would  not  take 
him  because  he  had  lost  the  thumb  on  his  left  hand, 
from  a  bursting  shotgun  when  he  was  twelve,  and  they 
said  he  would  not  be  able  to  hold  a  gun.  After  the 
war  he  became  a  crack  shot  at  clay-pigeon  shooting, 
showing  how  absurd  their  objection  was.  He  became 


WAR  75 

a  noted  yachtsman  and  traveller  and  died  when  only 
forty-eight.  I  have  always  felt  that  his  death  was 
really  hastened  by  his  wound,  so  that  in  a  sense  he 
died  for  his  country. 

I  must  confess  that  my  brother  and  I  had  very 
little  in  common.  He  was  a  good  horseman,  while  I 
never  could  feel  at  home  on  a  horse,  but  I  owned  and 
drove  horses  for  a  number  of  years.  He  owned  several 
yachts  and  sailed  them  himself  with  skill.  I,  too, 
owned  a  small  yacht  for  over  fifteen  years,  of  which  I 
was  skipper,  but  I  never  acquired  the  love  of  yacht- 
ing he  had.  He  also,  as  I  have  said,  was  a  good  shot, 
while  I  disliked  shooting.  I  was  told  that  when  I  went 
up  the  Nile  I  must  take  a  gun,  as  there  was  plenty  of 
game.  I  went  out  only  once  and  after  shooting  a 
number  of  birds,  I  was  so  disgusted  with  myself,  and 
the  birds  were  so  much  more  beautiful  hopping  and 
flying  about,  that  I  have  never  shot  a  bird  since.  Why 
people  want  to  destroy  God's  creatures  for  what  they 
call  sport  passes  my  understanding.  But  tastes  differ, 
and  the  Englishman  is  supposed  to  say,  "What  a 
beautiful  morning !  Let's  kill  something."  Which  re- 
minds me  of  a  story  that  Mr.  Lowell  used  to  tell.  One 
beautiful  moonlight  night  he  met  the  local  butcher 
somewhere  in  the  small  hours,  wandering  in  Harvard 
Square.  Mr.  Lowell  inquired  what  he  was  doing  there, 
to  which  he  replied  that  it  was  such  a  beautiful  night 


76  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

for  slaughtering  that  he  could  not  stay  in  bed.  Mr. 
Appleton  used  to  say,  "Pigs  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace 
bled,"  Wallace  being  the  name  of  the  butcher. 

To  return  to  the  war,  from  which  I  seem  to  have 
wandered  to  other  kinds  of  slaughtering:  the  most 
thrilling  sight  of  the  war  was  the  march  down  State 
Street  in  Boston  of  its  first  colored  regiment,  with 
Colonel  Shaw  at  their  head  and  all  singing  "John 
Brown's  Body."  Saint-Gaudens  has  well  represented 
in  his  Shaw  Memorial  the  contrast  between  the  aris- 
tocratic features  and  carriage  of  this  noble  New  Eng- 
land type  and  his  faithful  and  humble  followers. 

In  the  middle  of  the  war.  General  Fremont  took  a 
cottage  near  us  at  Nahant,  and  we  saw  a  good  deal  of 
Mrs.  Fremont  and  their  daughter.  There  was  also  a 
Pole,  whose  name  I  have  forgotten,  who  had  been  on 
Fremont's  staff.  He  had  with  him  a  horse  that  he  had 
ridden  in  the  war  in  Missouri.  This  horse  had  a  bad 
scar  on  his  rump.  Mr.  Appleton  asked  the  Pole  how 
he  got  such  a  scar,  and  he  said  he  got  it  at  Springfield, 
whereupon  Mr.  Appleton  said  they  were  very  careless 
on  the  railroads.  Poor  man!  his  one  claim  to  glory 
had  been  in  the  Battle  of  Springfield,  Missouri.  Sic 
transit  gloria  mnndi! 

As  boys  we  had  been  in  the  habit  of  bathing  on  the 
property  taken  by  the  Fremonts,  but  at  some  dis- 
tance from  the  house.  My  brother  was  at  home  on 


WAR  77 

sick-leave  while  recovering  from  camp  fever,  and  he 
and  another  young  man  went  in  bathing  from  the  old 
spot,  with  nothing  on,  as  had  been  our  custom.  In 
spite  of  our  friendliness  with  the  Fremonts,  Mrs. 
Fremont  had  them  arrested  for  bathing  without 
clothes.  When  the  trial  came  on,  my  brother's  counsel 
asked  her  how  she  knew  it  was  my  brother  who  was 
bathing,  as  it  was  impossible  from  the  house  to  recog- 
nize any  one  at  that  distance.  She  had  to  confess, 
blushing,  that  she  used  an  opera-glass!  After  that, 
of  course,  she  lost  her  case. 

When  my  brother  went  to  the  war,  he  left  behind 
his  Scotch  terrier,  called  Trap,  who  was  then  getting 
old  and  rheumatic.  He  attached  himself  to  my  father 
and  followed  him  everywhere,  and  spent  most  of  his 
time  in  my  father's  study  sleeping  on  a  closed  register, 
where  just  enough  heat  came  through  to  make  him 
comfortable.  My  father  used  often  to  take  a  nap  in 
the  afternoon  in  his  armchair  in  front  of  the  fire.  As 
the  gods  nod,  so  do  poets  sometimes  snore.  When 
this  happened,  it  seemed  to  disturb  the  dog  in  his 
slumbers,  and  he  would  get  up  and  paw  at  my  father's 
knee  till  he  waked  him  up,  and  then  would  lay  him- 
self down  again  with  a  sigh  of  contentment  to  con- 
tinue his  own  sleep  undisturbed.  There  was  some- 
thing so  human  about  this  that  my  father  never 
resented  it. 


78  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

As  can  be  imagined,  with  my  love  of  military  affairs 
I  was  tremendously  interested  in  the  war,  and  fol- 
lowed all  the  campaigns  with  great  faithfulness.  I 
could  give  detailed  descriptions  of  all  operations,  and 
of  battles,  even  to  the  names  of  the  generals  on  both 
sides,  and  the  number  of  troops  engaged !  At  first  I 
was  a  great  believer  in  General  McClellan,  as  were 
most  of  the  people  in  the  East  and  all  the  Army  of 
the  Potomac,  and  even  swallowed  the  excuse  of  the 
change  of  base  in  the  Peninsula ;  but  I  lost  faith  in  him 
after  the  Battle  of  Antietam,  when  Lee  was  at  his 
mercy  if  he  had  only  used  the  large  reserve  force  that 
had  not  been  engaged,  and  when  he  might  have 
bagged  the  whole  outfit  if  he  had  attacked  the  second 
day  instead  of  doing  nothing  and  allowing  Lee  to  re- 
cross  the  Potomac  unmolested. 

I  was  in  Washington  in  1863  when  Grant  was 
bogged  before  Vicksburg,  and  it  seemed  impossible 
that  he  could  get  on.  Great  pressure  was  brought  on 
Lincoln  to  have  him  removed.  I  was  often  in  Mr. 
Sumner's  rooms  and  heard  many  stories  there  of 
Grant's  drunkenness  and  incapacity.  All  the  politi- 
cians were  against  him,  and  the  enmity  between  him 
and  Sumner  must  have  begun  then.  It  was  at  that 
time  that  Lincoln  made  his  celebrated  remark,  when 
he  was  urged  to  remove  him  on  account  of  his  drink- 
ing, that  he  wished  he  knew  what  brand  of  whiskey 


WAR  79 

Grant  used  so  that  he  could  send  It  to  some  of  his 
other  generals. 

Washington  in  war-time  was  a  terrible  place. 
Pennsylvania  Avenue  at  that  time  was  hardly  any- 
thing but  shanties  between  the  Capitol  and  the 
Treasury  Building.  It  was  unpaved  and  a  sea  of  mud. 
I  remember  seeing  an  army  wagon  stalled  and  de- 
serted in  the  middle  of  the  avenue.  The  city  swarmed 
with  officers  on  leave  and  camp-followers  and  polit- 
ical hangers-on.  How  anything  was  accomplished  in 
such  a  chaos  is  hard  to  see. 

Halleck,  the  Chief  of  Staff,  was  incompetent.  Gen- 
eral after  general  was  tried  in  command  of  the  Army 
of  the  Potomac,  only  to  prove  unequal  to  the  task. 
Fortunately  Stanton,  at  the  War  Office,  was  a  man  of 
iron,  and  when  Grant  came  East  and  took  supreme 
command  things  began  to  move,  and  the  end  was  ob- 
viously only  a  question  of  time.  Numbers  and  re- 
sources were  bound  to  tell,  and  the  terrible  war  came 
to  an  end. 

As  my  father  used  to  say,  autobiographies  are  what 
biographies  ought  to  be,  but  often  they  unconsciously 
betray  their  writers.  There  were  three  autobiogra- 
phies written  after  the  war — by  Grant,  Sherman, 
and  McClellan  —  that  contained  this  self-revelation 
in  a  notable  degree.  Every  one  agrees  that  Grant's 
"Personal  Memoirs"  was  a  remarkable  book  from 


8o  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

its  clearness,  simplicity,  and  unexpected  literary 
quality.  It  raised  him  even  higher  in  public  esteem 
than  before.  Sherman's  book  was  disappointing,  and 
I  think  left  the  impression  that  he  was  not  quite  the 
great  general  that  we  had  thought  him,  and  that 
he  was  not  the  superior  of  Grant,  as  he  himself 
seemed  to  think,  although  he  always  loyally  carried 
out  Grant's  orders.  His  doubting  of  the  wisdom  of 
Grant's  campaign  in  the  rear  of  VIcksburg,  which 
turned  out  one  of  the  most  perfectly  conducted  and 
masterly  strokes  of  the  war,  is  a  case  in  point. 

McClellan  tried  in  his  book  to  vindicate  himself, 
and  succeeded  only  In  making  his  incapacity  and  in- 
decision more  apparent.  He  was  undoubtedly  a  great 
organizer,  but  had  temperamental  limitations  that 
prevented  his  success  as  a  general.  He  was  an  en- 
gineer officer  to  begin  with  and  always  seemed  anxious 
to  exercise  his  training.  He  started  a  regular  siege  be- 
fore Yorktown  when  there  were  few  forces  to  oppose 
him,  and  when  he  could  easily  have  taken  that  place 
if  he  had  attacked ;  he  always  waited  to  see  what  the 
other  fellow  was  going  to  do,  instead  of  imposing  his 
own  initiative  on  the  enemy.  He  also  always  mag- 
nified the  size  of  the  opposing  forces  and  was  perpet- 
ually calling  for  reenforcements. 


CHAPTER  V 

QUIPS  AND  CRANKS 

Every  person  of  prominence  has  queer  experiences 
with  cranks  and  otherwise  unintentionally  humorous 
persons.  My  father  was  no  exception,  and  indeed 
suffered  more  than  others,  because  of  his  kindness  of 
heart.  Fortunately,  he  had  a  sense  of  humor,  and 
could  see  the  funny  side  of  things,  which  enabled  him 
to  bear  up  under  many  boring  experiences. 

Some  of  these  happenings  it  is  worth  recording,  if 
only  to  add  to  the  gaiety  of  nations. 

There  was  a  man  at  Newport  who,  after  being  in- 
troduced to  my  father,  said,  in  the  most  impressive 
manner,  "Oh!  Mr.  Longfellow,  I  have  long  wished  to 
meet  you,  as  I  am  one  of  the  few  people  who  appre- 
ciate your  'Evangeline.'  " 

My  father  was  once  walking  down  to  Harvard 
Square  when  he  was  stopped  by  an  Irishman.  "And 
is  this  Mr.  Longfellow?"  he  inquired.  "And  are  you 
the  poet.?"  Being  assured  that  he  was,  he  proceeded 
to  say,  "I  am  happy  to  meet  you,  sorr.  I  have  a 
brother  in  the  Port  [Cambridgeport]  who  is  also  a 
poet,  and  a  drunkard." 

There   was    also   the   gushing   poetess   who   had 


82  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

brought  a  manuscript  poem  for  my  father's  approval, 
and,  I  suppose  wishing  to  ingratiate  herself  with  the 
poet,  exclaimed  with  clasped  hands  and  eyes  rolled 
up,  "Evangeline,  sir,  is  a  very  superior  article,  a  very 
superior  article." 

A  rustic  individual  was  once  calling  with  his  bride, 
and  by  way  of  entertaining  them  my  father  was  show- 
ing them  the  things  of  interest  on  his  study  table, 
among  others  Coleridge's  inkstand  that  had  been 
given  my  father  by  an  English  admirer.  My  father 
had  said  that  perhaps  the  "Ancient  Mariner"  had 
been  written  from  this  very  inkstand.  Coleridge  evi- 
dently conveyed  but  a  vague  idea  to  the  man,  who 
burst  out  with,  "'The  Old  Oaken  Bucket,'  now,  who 
done  that?" 

My  father  once  received  a  letter  from  a  student  in  a 
Western  college  stating  that  there  was  to  be  a  prize 
given  for  the  best  poem  written  by  one  of  the  stu- 
dents, and  he  was  sure  if  my  father  would  write  it  for 
him,  he  would  win  the  prize.  He  added  in  a  post- 
script, "Please  send  bill." 

A  gigantic  Russian  called  Bakunin,  of  some  emi- 
nence as  a  writer  and  with  a  voice  like  a  megaphone, 
arrived  once  to  see  my  father.  He  came  about  noon, 
and  stayed  so  long  that  my  father  invited  him  to 
lunch,  whereupon  he  bellowed,  "Yiss,  and  I  will  dine 
with  you  too,"  and  he  did,  and  did  not  leave  till  eleven 


QUIPS  AND  CRANKS  83 

o'clock  at  night.  Bakunin,  it  seems,  was  a  violent 
anarchist,  although  I  am  sure  my  father  never  sus- 
pected it.  We  did  not  trouble  about  such  things  in 
this  country  In  those  days.  I  believe  he  is  considered 
to  have  been  the  parent  of  the  present  Bolshevik 
movement. 

Mr.  Fields,  the  publisher,  gave  Bakunin  a  dinner 
to  meet  the  literary  celebrities  of  Boston.  Those  were 
the  happy  days  when  you  could  have  genuine  canvas- 
back  ducks.  When  that  course  arrived,  Bakunin 
took  one  mouthful  of  the  delicious  morsel,  and  then 
called  the  waiter  to  him.  "Wat  iss  dass.?"  "Canvas- 
back  duck,  sir."  "Mor^.''"  bellowed  the  Russian,  and 
proceeded  to  gobble  what  was  on  his  plate. 

My  three  sisters  were  painted  as  the  three  Graces 
by  Buchanan  Read,  the  poet-artist,  who  wrote  and 
painted  "Sheridan's  Ride."  But  the  artist  was  em- 
barrassed by  the  six  arms,  and  in  order  to  get  rid  of 
one,  he  painted  my  youngest  sister  with  one  arm  be- 
hind her  back.  Not  being  very  skilful,  it  looked  as  if 
she  had  lost  an  arm,  so  the  story  got  about  that  she 
was  born  with  only  one  arm.  Mr.  Lowell  was  once 
riding  in  the  Cambridge  horse-car  when  he  heard  a 
woman,  as  they  were  passing  my  father's  house,  re- 
lating the  story  in  a  loud  voice,  for  the  benefit  of  the 
whole  car.  This  was  too  much  for  Mr.  Lowell,  so  he 
said  to  the  woman,  "Excuse  me,  madam,  but  I  know 


84  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

the  Longfellow  family  very  well,  and  I  can  assure  you 
that  the  young  lady  has  both  her  arms."  "Excuse 
me,  sir,"  said  the  woman,  not  to  be  put  down,  "but  I 
have  it  on  the  best  authority." 

To  show  how  stories  of  this  sort  travel,  and  grow 
as  they  travel,  I  was  once  asked  by  a  lady  in  Eng- 
land if  it  was  true  that  one  of  my  sisters  had  no  arms, 
and  as  she  had  a  great  talent  for  poetry  wrote  beau- 
tifully with  her  feet!  This  is  a  fact,  though  incredi- 
ble.  Nor  did  she  mean  poetical  feet  either. 

There  was  one  day  a  crazy  woman  who  arrived 
at  my  father's  house  with  all  her  baggage,  and  an- 
nounced that  she  was  married  to  my  father  and  had 
come  to  stay.  Mr.  Greene,  an  old  and  palsied  friend 
of  my  father's,  who  was  staying  in  the  house  at  the 
time,  went  out  into  the  hall  to  remonstrate  with  her 
and  persuade  her  to  go  away.  She  demanded  his 
name,  and  what  right  he  had  to  interfere.  When  he 
said  his  name  was  Greene,  she  turned  on  him  with 
"Get  away,  you  old  green  snake,"  and  the  old  man 
fled.  Finally,  I  believe,  the  police  had  to  be  called  in 
to  get  rid  of  her. 

This  same  George  Washington  Greene,  a  grandson 
of  General  Greene,  of  the  Revolution,  had  been  a 
friend  of  my  father's  youth,  in  Italy.  In  his  old  age 
he  became  very  feeble,  and  when  he  visited  us  my 
father  had  practically  to  undress  him  and  put  him  to 


QUIPS  AND  CRANKS  85 

bed.  One  night  he  came  into  my  father's  room  in  the 
middle  of  the  night,  and,  waking  him  up,  announced 
that  he  smelled  smoke,  so  the  two  old  gentlemen  took 
candles  and  went  poking  about  the  house  to  find  the 
fire.  Wherever  they  went,  Mr.  Greene  smelled  smoke, 
but  my  father  could  not.  At  last  my  father  turned  on 
Mr.  Greene  and  said,  "George,  you  have  been  smok- 
ing to-night  after  dinner,  and  you  are  not  used  to 
smoking,  and  what  you  smell  is  the  smoke  in  your 
moustache."  After  a  hearty  laugh  the  two  old  men 
retired  to  bed  again. 

Colonel  Harper,  of  Kentucky,  had  a  celebrated 
race-horse  named  "Longfellow."  When  the  Colonel 
was  asked  why  he  named  him  after  the  poet  Long- 
fellow, he  said,  "Poet  nothing;  I  called  him  'Long- 
fellow' because  he  had  such  a  long  body."  This  much 
amused  my  father. 

Tales  and  jokes  have  to  be  very  apropos,  not  to  seem 
flat  as  champagne  when  the  sparkle  is  gone.  "Brev- 
ity is  the  soul  of  wit."  A  joke  or  a  story  should  be 
spontaneous  and  should  not  be  too  long  in  the  tell- 
ing, lest  it  become  tedious.  The  best  story-teller  I 
ever  heard  was  Whistler;  he  always  managed  to  end 
his  story  in  an  unexpected  manner.  I  knew  a  man 
once  who  collected  stories  and  jokes  in  a  little  book, 
and  when  he  was  going  out  to  dinner  he  got  up  a 
few,  and  tried  to  lead  the  conversation  round  so  he 


86  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

could  work  them  in.  Anything  more  ghastly  I  can't 
imagine. 

I  once  knew  a  man  named  by  his  friends  "Conver- 
sation" Clark.  Whatever  topic  was  started  he  would 
say,  "Oh,  that  reminds  me";  or,  "  Speaking  of";  and 
oif  he  would  go,  and  there  was  no  way  of  stopping  him 
till  he  became  entirely  exhausted  by  his  own  volubility. 
I  did  once  get  the  better  of  him,  however;  I  happened 
to  meet  him  at  the  Riffel  Inn  at  Zermatt,  where  I  was 
stopping  for  sketching  purposes.  After  he  had  nearly 
talked  us  to  death  at  lunch,  I  invited  him  to  go  with 
us  up  the  hills  to  the  Riffel  Lake,  where  I  was  finishing 
a  sketch.  It  was  a  rather  stiff  climb,  and  in  that  high 
air  one  got  easily  out  of  breath.  I  was  in  good  train- 
ing, having  been  doing  a  good  deal  of  climbing,  and 
he  was  not.  We  started  off  gaily  enough,  he  talking 
as  fast  as  ever,  but  pretty  soon  he  began  to  pant, 
and  had  to  stop  talking,  being  quite  out  of  breath. 
"Funny,"  he  said,  "I  never  had  to  stop  talking  be- 
fore." I  noticed  after  that  he  fought  shy  of  us,  and 
we  were  not  sorry  when  he  soon  departed  for  more 
congenial  climes. 

Speaking  of  ready  wit,  my  uncle,  the  Reverend 
Samuel  Longfellow,  was  once  at  a  dinner  given  by 
Mr.  Longworth  at  Cincinnati,  and  in  response  to  a 
toast  from  Mr.  Longworth,  replied,  "Worth  makes 
the  man,  and  want  of  it  the  fellow." 


QUIPS  AND  CRANKS  87 

Sometimes  I  have  been  guilty  of  saying  things  my- 
self that  perhaps  I  may  be  permitted  to  put  down.  I 
was  once,  shortly  after  the  earthquake  in  San  Fran- 
cisco, asked  by  an  Englishman  who  was  going  to 
America,  and  had  letters  to  people  in  Philadelphia,  if 
they  had  earthquakes  in  that  city.  I  responded  that 
I  had  never  heard  of  any,  but  I  knew  they  had  Quak- 
ers. I  think  to  this  day  he  is  puzzling  over  that  reply. 

Once  some  one  was  remarking  on  the  habit  of  some 
wives  to  find  trivial  fault  with  their  husbands.  I  said, 
"Yes,  women  look  at  a  man  through  a  magnifying 
glass  before  marriage,  and  through  a  microscope 
after."  Speaking  of  marriage,  I  once  said  that  the 
holy  state  of  matrimony  was  so  holey  that  there  were 
plenty  of  loopholes  of  escape. 

A  lady  in  England  was  speaking  about  some  man 
who  had  just  been  knighted,  who  had  made  his  for- 
tune through  wholesale  dealings  in  fish,  and  wondered 
why  there  was  such  a  difference  between  him  and  a 
fishmonger.   I  said  it  must  be  the  difference  of  scale. 

Once  on  the  Nile,  when  there  was  an  unusual  collec- 
tion of  natives  on  the  bank  waiting  for  the  ferry,  a 
lady  on  the  boat  asked  me  what  the  crowd  meant.  I 
said  it  must  be  a  bank  holiday.  She  said  that  she  did 
not  suppose  they  would  have  a  bank  in  such  a  small 
village.  I  assured  her  that  on  the  contrary  there  were 
two  banks,  one  on  each  side  of  the  river. 


88  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

The  first  day  of  May  in  Europe,  like  our  Labor  Day, 
is  given  up  to  parades  and  celebrations  by  the  Social- 
ists. One  spring  in  Paris  it  was  rumored  that  the 
Royalists  were  going  to  use  the  common  people  and 
Socialists  to  stir  up  a  revolt,  and  cause,  if  possible,  a 
revolution,  when  the  Royalists  hoped  to  come  into 
power.  People  were  so  alarmed  that  they  laid  in  pro- 
visions and  canned  goods,  in  case  of  a  state  of  siege, 
and  the  Government  filled  Paris  with  troops  con- 
cealed in  cellars  and  unfinished  buildings,  and  warned 
the  people  to  keep  off  the  streets  on  May  i  st,  and  not 
to  gather  in  groups.  As  a  result  the  streets  were  quite 
deserted  in  the  morning  and  cavalry  patrolled  every- 
where. As  nothing  happened,  in  the  afternoon  the 
populace,  Parisian-like,  came  out  to  see  why  nothing 
had  happened.  In  fact  the  whole  plot  was  a  fiasco. 
A  few  days  later  my  cousin  came  to  call  on  us,  and 
brought  my  wife  a  bunch  of  lilies-of-the-valley.  He 
apologized  for  their  being  so  small,  and  I  said,  "Yes, 
since  the  first  of  May,  the  lilies  of  France  had  been 
very  small."  I  don't  think  he  knew  what  I  meant, 
but  a  lady,  long  a  resident  of  Paris,  who  happened  to 
be  present,  thought  it  very  clever,  and  repeated  it  to  all 
her  friends ;  of  course  not  including  her  French  friends, 
because  in  French,  fleur-de-lis,  the  symbol  of  the  Royal- 
ists, and  lily-of-the-valley  have  quite  a  different  name, 
and  do  not  come  under  the  same  head  of  lily  as  with  us. 


QUIPS  AND  CRANKS  89 

One  day  in  Rome,  Signor  BonI,  the  archaeologist,  was 
discoursing  on  a  recent  excavation  in  the  Forum  in 
which  he  had  dug  down  farther  than  had  ever  been 
done  before,  and  discovered  some  remarkable  pot- 
tery. I  remarked  that  I  supposed  if  he  had  gone  still 
farther,  he  would  have  come  to  China.  I  am  afraid  he 
thought  this  remark  flippant. 

On  another  occasion  I  had  been  having  a  conver- 
sation with  an  Englishman  across  the  table  at  a 
table  (Thote.  After  a  little  he  said,  "  I  should  not  have 
thought  you  were  an  American.  You  don't  talk 
through  your  nose";  meaning,  I  have  no  doubt,  to  be 
very  complimentary.  "That  is  singular,"  I  said.  "I 
was  not  sure  you  were  an  Englishman  because  you  do 
not  drop  your  A's."  He  became  huffy,  thinking  I  was 
pulling  his  leg,  as  he  would  have  expressed  it. 

During  my  father's  life  an  educated  Englishwoman, 
the  wife  of  a  dean,  who  certainly  ought  to  have 
known  better,  asked  me  where  my  father  was  then. 
I  said  he  was  in  America.  She  wanted  to  know  what 
he  was  doing  there.  I  told  her  that  he  lived  there. 
"But  he  was  born  in  England,"  she  declared,  and  I 
had  hard  work  to  convince  her  that  I  knew  where  my 
father  was  born. 

Another  Englishwoman  declared  that  it  was  a  pity 
that  we  had  no  literature  in  America.  I  said  we  had 
some  authors,  and  ran  over  a  list  of  a  dozen,  begin- 


90  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

ningwith  Cooper  and  ending  with  Howells  and  James. 
"But",  she  said,  "we  claim  all  those  as  English."  Of 
course  I  said,  "If  you  claim  all  our  principal  authors, 
then  we  have  no  literature."" 

Per  contra,  speaking  of  Howells  and  James,  I  be- 
lieve that  in  one  of  Gilbert  and  Sullivan's  operas, 
where  somebody  sings  of  "  a  Howell  and  James  young 
man,"  most  Americans  think  they  are  alluding  to 
those  authors,  instead  of  the  clerks  in  the  emporium 
of  that  name. 

I  was  once  staying  in  the  house  of  a  very  nice  Eng- 
lishman, with  people  who  I  suppose  might  be  called 
the  fast  set.  Among  the  party  was  a  rector  of  about 
thirty-five  who  was  of  the  sporty-parson  sort.  He 
played  cricket  for  his  county,  and  was  also  a  crack 
tennis  player.  After  dinner  one  night,  as  the  gentle- 
men were  crossing  the  hall  to  join  the  ladies  in  the 
drawing-room,  he  suddenly  came  up  to  me  and 
slapped  my  face,  saying,  "  I  wanted  to  say  that  I  had 
slapped  the  face  of  the  son  of  the  poet  Longfellow." 
Then  he  bolted  to  the  protection  of  the  ladies.  Now 
that  is  a  kind  of  joke  that  I  do  not  appreciate,  espe- 
cially coming  from  a  parson  who  is  protected  by  his 
cloth,  so  I  could  not  take  it  out  of  him  later.  He  prob- 
ably was  a  little  drunk,  if  that  makes  it  any  better. 
None  of  the  other  men  seemed  to  think  it  was  out  of 
the  way,  but  I  confidently  expected  an  apology  from 


QUIPS  AND  CRANKS  91 

my  host.  As  none  came  I  told  him  I  was  very  sorry 
but  I  had  to  leave  for  London  the  following  morning. 
This  rector  was  the  rector  to  Lord  Salisbury  at  his 
place  near  by,  and  was  evidently  a  gentleman  except 
in  his  manners. 

At  a  lunch  at  Lord  Playfair's  in  London  a  gentle- 
man, an  entire  stranger  to  me,  leaned  across  the  table 
and  said  to  me,  "Your  Senators  all  get  their  places  by 
bribery,  do  they  not?"  Now,  that  was  a  nice  thing  to 
say  to  a  stranger!  I  replied  that  I  knew  several  Sen- 
ators, and  I  thought  they  would  compare  favorably 
with  members  of  the  upper  house  of  any  other  country. 
I  might  have  added  that,  as  Labouchere  once  declared 
to  me,  it  was  quite  a  common  thing  in  England,  if  a 
man  made  a  large  enough  contribution  to  the  party 
funds,  for  him  to  be  made  a  peer  or  at  least  be 
knighted.  However,  we  must  take  people  as  we  find 
them,  and  not  measure  every  one  with  one  foot-rule 
as  the  English  are  prone  to  do. 

There  is  one  curious  thing  about  Englishmen,  and 
that  is  that,  while  the  young  men  are  apt  to  be  bump- 
tious and  self-satisfied,  when  they  pass  fifty  and  have 
seen  something  of  the  world,  no  more  charming  people 
exist  than  Englishmen.  As  to  women,  English,  Amer- 
ican, or  others,  it  is  safest  not  to  make  comparisons. 
Each  nation  naturally  thinks  its  own  women  the  most 
beautiful  and  charming. 


92  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

Another  curious  experience  In  London  I  must  men- 
tion. I  was  called  on  there  once  by  an  entire  stranger, 
an  M.P.,  who  wished  me  to  lunch  with  him.  I  believe 
he  said  he  got  my  address  from  Lord  Houghton.  I 
had  no  desire  to  lunch  with  him,  and  pointed  out  to 
him  that  I  had  with  me  my  wife  and  a  cousin,  and  that 
I  did  not  wish  to  desert  them.  He  quite  ignored  them, 
however,  when  I  Introduced  them,  and  made  not  the 
faintest  sign  of  including  them  In  the  invitation,  so  I 
thought  It  must  be  a  man's  lunch.  As  he  was  persist- 
ent and  would  not  take  no  for  an  answer,  I  finally 
accepted.  At  the  appointed  time  I  arrived  at  his 
house,  a  large  mansion  in  one  of  London's  fashionable 
squares.  There  was  a  large  gathering  assembled  of 
ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  should  think  about  twenty. 
He  introduced  me  to  his  wife,  but  to  nobody  else, 
which,  of  course,  is  the  English  custom,  but  rather 
trying  to  strangers,  as  evidently  all  the  others  were 
very  much  at  home.  I  was  rather  angry,  because  in 
such  a  large  company  it  seemed  to  me  rude  not  to 
have  included  my  wife,  at  least,  in  the  invitation,  es- 
pecially as  when  we  went  down  to  lunch  I  was  left 
with  a  young  man  to  follow  on  behind,  as  there  were 
two  ladles  short.  I  found  a  place  as  best  I  could, 
without  any  attention  whatever  from  my  host  or 
hostess,  nor  did  I  have  a  word  with  them  till  I  took 
my  leave.   I  have  never  to  this  day  understood  that 


QUIPS  AND  CRANKS  93 

man's  persistence  in  having  me  to  lunch,  or  his  utter 
neglect  of  a  stranger  after  he  got  him  there.  I  sup- 
posed when  he  asked  me,  he  wanted  to  boast  of  hav- 
ing the  son  of  the  poet  to  lunch,  but  as  he  introduced 
me  to  nobody,  that  did  not  seem  the  reason.  I,  of 
course,  left  a  card  at  the  house ;  but  I  have  never  seen 
the  man  again  and  don't  even  remember  his  name.  I 
mention  the  incident  only  as  an  example  of  the  curious 
manners  of  an  English  M.P.  and  a  man  of  wealth. 

After  my  father's  death  an  Englishman  wrote  for 
some  London  paper  a  detailed  account  of  an  ascent  of 
Vesuvius  by  moonlight  accompanied  by  my  father. 
There  was  not  a  bit  of  truth  in  it.  I  was  at  Naples 
with  my  father  at  the  date  mentioned  and  know  that 
he  did  not  go  up  the  mountain,  much  less  by  moonlight. 

A  short  time  ago  I  saw  in  an  English  newspaper 
that  the  "village  smithy"  was  in  a  certain  English 
village  that  was  named;  as  a  matter  of  fact,  as  every- 
body knows,  it  was  on  Brattle  Street,  Cambridge, 
Massachusetts. 

I  do  not  wish  it  thought  from  these  many  allusions 
to  the  English  that  I  dislike  them;  on  the  contrary,  I 
have  many  friends  there,  but  I  am  not  mentioning 
here  the  many  pleasant  memories,  but  only  the  queer 
things  that  sometimes  happen.  There  is  one  trait  that 
I  especially  like  in  the  English  —  their  simplicity  and 
straightforwardness,  often  amounting  to  naivete. 


94  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

I  once  met  an  Englishman  on  a  steamer  In  the  Med- 
iterranean who  was  much  taken  with  a  charming 
American  girl  on  board.  He  confided  to  me  how  de- 
lightful it  was  to  be  able  to  get  acquainted  so  easily. 
He  said  that  in  England  if  you  saw  much  of  a  girl,  so 
as  to  get  to  know  her,  her  father  or  brother  were  sure 
to  want  to  know  what  your  intentions  were,  when  as  a 
matter  of  fact  you  had  n't  any  except  to  get  to  know 
her.  He  added  with  a  sigh  in  the  most  naive  manner, 
"I  married  my  cousin  because  I  knew  her." 

Another  time  I  sat  next  an  English  woman  for  sev- 
eral days  at  the  table  d'hote  in  Venice.  She  seemed  im- 
pressed by  the  fact  that  I  was  the  son  of  the  poet,  for 
when  she  was  going  awa}^  she  made  me  a  curtsy  and 
said  that  the  pleasantest  remembrance  of  her  trip 
abroad  would  be  having  met  me. 

A  curious  thing  happened  to  me  once  at  Windsor. 
I  had  gone  down  with  a  party  to  pass  the  afternoon 
on  the  river.  After  lunch  at  the  hotel,  it  came  on  to 
rain;  as  I  was  putting  on  my  overcoat  in  the  hall,  I 
leaned  my  umbrella  up  against  a  sofa  behind  me; 
when  I  turned  round  to  take  it,  It  was  gone.  I  had 
seen  a  nice-looking  gentleman  in  the  hall  near  me,  and 
I  asked  the  porter  if  he  could  have  taken  it  by  mis- 
take. He  said  he  knew  the  gentleman  well,  as  he  lived 
in  the  neighborhood,  and  he  would  ask  him  when  he 
came  in  again.   So  I  left  my  address  in  London  with 


QUIPS  AND  CRANKS  95 

the  porter  with  a  good  tip  and  asked  him  to  send  me 
the  umbrella  if  it  was  brought  back.  I  was  quite  con- 
vinced in  my  own  mind  that  the  umbrella  had  not 
been  taken  by  accident  because  one  certainly  knows 
one's  own  umbrella  by  the  feel.  Several  days  later 
the  umbrella  was  returned  to  me  with  the  handle  bro- 
ken, and  done  up  inside  so  that  it  could  not  have  been 
broken  in  transit.  I  think  the  gentleman  might  at 
least  have  had  it  mended  for  me  after  stealing  it. 


CHAPTER  VI 

ART 

When  one  has  lived  over  seventy  years,  one  has  nec- 
essarily seen  many  changes  in  the  fashions  in  art. 
It  is  a  far  cry  from  the  Diisseldorf  school,  or  Pre- 
Raphaelitism,  to  the  Post-Impressionists  or  Cubists, 
not  to  mention  Futurism. 

In  the  fifties,  when  I  first  became  conscious  of 
paintings,  the  so-called  Hudson  River  school  was  in 
the  ascendant  in  America.  I  take  it  it  was  an  out- 
growth of  Diisseldorf. 

Although  we  had  some  good  pictures  in  our  house, 
notably  a  head  of  a  Venetian  Senator  by  Tintoretto,  a 
very  fine  work,  and  a  large  picture  of  two  children, 
supposed  to  be  the  children  of  Sir  William  Pepperell, 
attributed  to  Copley,  but  which  I  now  think  may 
have  been  painted  by  Sir  William  Beechey,  besides 
two  good  Stuarts,  I  do  not  think  they  made  much 
impression  on  my  childish  mind. 

I,  of  course,  drew  pictures,  as  all  children  do,  but  it 
was  not  till  a  summer  at  Newport,  when  I  was  ten 
or  eleven,  and  we  were  living  in  the  same  house 
with  Kensett,  the  artist,  that  I  really  became  inter- 
ested in  painting.   I  remember  I  used  to  watch  him 


ART  97 

paint,  and  when  he  lent  me  some  of  his  paints  and 
brushes  I  painted  my  first  picture  in  oils,  I  think  of  a 
sailboat  in  a  rough  sea,  on  a  piece  of  tobacco-box. 
My  uncle,  Mr.  Appleton,  was  an  amateur  painter  of 
some  talent,  who  might  have  become  a  real  artist  if 
he  had  been  willing  to  devote  himself  to  art  and  had 
not  been  too  indolent  to  take  lessons  and  work  hard. 
He  had  many  friends  among  the  artists,  especially 
Kensett  and  Church,  he  of  the  "Heart  of  the  Andes" 
and  Niagara  fame. 

In  this  way  I  became  familiar  with  the  work  of  the 
North  River  school,  which  now  seems  very  thin  and 
over-elaborated.  Kensett  was  a  charming  man,  and 
had  as  an  artist  a  delightful  touch;  but  his  pictures 
lack  what  artists  call  quality. 

Church  was  well  known  for  his  large  and  ambitious 
compositions  in  something  of  the  classical  style,  with 
a  great  deal  of  detail  in  the  foreground  and  rainbows 
and  that  sort  of  thing  in  the  sky,  which  appealed  to  the 
uneducated. 

Cropsey  was  devoted  to  autumn  foliage  of  the  most 
brilliant  description,  which  you  might  say  was  a  trifle 
gaudy. 

Mclntyre  was  perhaps  one  of  the  best  of  the  school, 
with  his  quiet  brown  autumn  scenes. 

While  the  work  of  this  school  was  well  studied  and 
composed,  it  was  worked  out  with  almost  too  much 


98  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

detail  and  painstaking  care,  and,  I  regret  to  say, 
owing  to  its  thin  quality,  came  perilously  near  to  the 
chromo. 

Then  followed  in  the  fifties  the  devotees  of  Ruskin 
and  Pre-Raphaelitism.  Mr.  Norton  was  one  of  these; 
and  through  him  and  Mr.  Lowell  there  appeared  in 
Cambridge  a  Mr.  Stillman.  He  devoted  days  to  paint- 
ing the  moss  on  a  tree-trunk  or  on  a  stone.  He  wished 
to  paint  my  father's  portrait  sitting  under  a  giant  oak 
at  Waverley,  some  four  miles  away.  So  my  poor  father 
had  to  journey  day  after  day,  to  be  set  down  under 
this  oak,  when  any  tree-trunk  in  our  own  garden 
would  have  done  as  well,  once  the  picture  was  started. 

There  is  such  a  thing  as  carrying  realism  too  far. 
The  followers  of  Ruskin  seem  to  have  had  no  sense  of 
proportion ;  a  pebble  seemed  to  them  as  important  as 
a  whole  mountain-side.  One  of  them  named  Freeman 
spent  years  on  the  Nile  painting  temples  with  the 
most  meticulous  care,  even  using  an  opera-glass  to 
read  and  record  the  hieroglyphics  which  a  photo- 
graph would  do  much  better,  and  he  boasted  that 
archaeologists  would  be  able  thereby  to  read  the  in- 
scriptions in  his  pictures —  and  this  in  the  name  of  art! 

Ruskin,  with  his  charm  of  style,  probably  did  more 
to  injure  English  art  in  the  last  century  than  even 
the  philistine  puritanism  of  the  Victorian  era.  No 
wonder  he  and  Whistler  came  to  blows. 


ART  99 

A  little  later  Blerstadt  was  covering  acres  of  canvas 
in  an  endeavor  to  convey  the  grandeur  of  the  Rocky 
Mountains.  His  pictures  of  the  undoubted  Diissel- 
dorf  school  have  a  certain  spaciousness,  and  have  an 
added  interest  as  a  record  of  an  era  that  has  passed 
away,  with  their  Indians  and  the  wildness  of  the 
mountains  in  those  days.  He  was  followed  by  Hill, 
who  did  much  the  same  thing,  only  perhaps  in  a 
broader  style,  and  with  not  so  much  detail. 

In  the  late  fifties  or  early  sixties  pictures  of  the  Bar- 
bison  school  began  to  trickle  into  America.  William 
Hunt  came  back  from  studying  with  Couture  and 
Millet,  and  brought  pictures  with  him.  I  have  always 
thought  the  best  things  Hunt  ever  did  wxre  under  the 
influence  of  Couture;  like  his  hurdy-gurdy  boy,  and 
the  girl  at  the  fountain;  also  his  powerful  portrait  of 
Chief  Justice  Shaw.  The  influence  of  Millet  seemed 
to  have  a  weakening  influence  on  his  art,  and  also  led 
him  into  that  ever-hot  color  which  at  one  time  af- 
flicted him.  His  own  style  developed  later,  and  was 
marked  by  a  more  loose  handling,  but  a  carelessness 
of  drawing.  In  his  boys  bathing,  so  much  admired, 
the  poise  of  the  boy  standing  on  the  other's  shoulder 
is  admirable,  but  why  was  it  necessary  to  sacrifice  the 
drawing  of  the  latter's  arm.^  So  in  his  decorations  for 
the  Capitol  at  Albany,  the  drawing  of  the  figures  was 
as  bad  as  could  be.    Perhaps  it  is  fortunate  for  his 


loo  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

fame,  now  that  so  much  more  expert  draughtsman- 
ship is  expected  in  decoration,  that  the  paintings 
were  destroyed  by  damp. 

Hunt's  fame  was  almost  entirely  local  and  was  due 
to  his  many  portraits  of  Boston  people,  and  to  his 
having  a  class  of  lady  pupils.  No  surer  road  to  ac- 
quiring fame  exists  than  to  have  a  class  of  admiring 
females,  exclaiming  at  every  stroke  of  the  brush,  and 
carrying  your  praises  abroad. 

Mr.  Hunt's  talent  did  not  seem  to  be  appreciated 
by  his  fellow-townsmen  at  first,  as  it  deserved.  I  re- 
member an  exhibition  he  had  that  seemed  on  the 
point  of  failure,  when  one  of  his  friends  had  the  in- 
genious idea  of  writing  an  article  for  the  "Transcript" 
abusing  his  work;  the  next  evening  an  article  by  the 
same  man  praising  it  extravagantly  appeared;  in  this 
way  a  discussion  was  started  that  raged  in  all  the 
papers  for  a  week,  and  all  the  world  flocked  to  the  ex- 
hibition to  see  for  itself;  so  the  show  became  a  great 
success.  Few  people  seem  to  have  the  critical  faculty 
or  are  judges  of  pictures,  and  fewer  still  know  anything 
about  drawing;  most  follow  like  sheep  where  they  are 
led. 

Another  artist  who  had  studied  in  Paris  returned 
about  this  time,  W.  Allan  Gay.  He  had  been  a  pupil 
of  Troyon,  but  painted  only  landscapes — -charming 
views  of  the  Cohasset  shore  for  the  most  part.  He  was 


ART  loi 

a  great  friend  of  Mr.  Appleton's,  who  bought  several 
of  his  pictures.  Mr.  Appleton  did  not  think  he  was 
sufficiently  encouraged,  and  one  day,  meeting  one  of 
the  richest  men  of  Boston,  who  was  also  by  way  of  be- 
ing a  philanthropist,  told  him  that  he  ought  to  encour- 
age the  fine  arts,  that  he  ought  to  buy  some  of  Mr. 
Gay's  pictures.  A  few  days  later,  meeting  him  again, 
he  asked  him  if  he  had  done  so;  whereupon  the  gen- 
tleman said,  No,  he  had  not  done  so  because  he  had 
made  inquiries,  and  he  had  found  that  Mr.  Gay  was 
not  in  impecunious  circumstances.  Comment  is  need- 
less !  However,  a  few  years  later,  the  same  gentleman 
gave  me  an  order  for  two  pictures,  so  I  suppose  he  had 
either  seen  a  light,  or  else  he  considered  me  such  a  poor 
artist,  in  one  way  or  the  other,  that  I  needed  help. 

The  pictures  of  the  Barbison  school  that  these  art- 
ists brought  home,  and  others  that  began  to  appear  in 
the  dealers'  galleries,  inspired  me  with  such  enthu- 
siasm for  the  French  school  that  I  determined  to  go  to 
Paris  to  study  when  I  had  finished  my  studies  at  the 
Lawrence  Scientific  School,  as  I  have  before  men- 
tioned. (I  may  mention  here  that  Mr.  Appleton  gave 
an  order  to  Millet  for  a  picture  to  cost  two  hundred 
dollars,  I  think;  but  Millet  was  so  long  finishing  the 
picture  that  Mr.  Appleton  countermanded  the  order. 
This  picture  was  the  celebrated  Angelus,  which  was 
afterwards  sold  for  ^100,000.)   Accordingly,  accom- 


I02  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

panled  by  my  uncle,  the  Reverend  Samuel  Longfel- 
low, as  bear  leader,  and  to  keep  me  out  of  mischief, 
I  suppose,  I  sailed  in  October  of  1865  for  the  great 
adventure.  And  it  was  a  great  adventure,  for  I  was 
not  yet  quite  twenty;  I  had  never  taken  any  lessons  in 
drawing  or  painting,  except  such  as  one  has  at  school, 
which  practically  amounted  to  nothing;  I  had  never 
drawn  from  the  life,  and  not  even  from  casts.  There 
were  no  good  art  schools  in  Boston  then  that  I  could 
have  gone  to;  but  I  had  a  natural  gift  for  drawing  and 
a  correct  eye. 

The  first  three  days  at  sea  I  was  deadly  seasick  and 
very  homesick.  The  Cunarders  of  those  days  were 
not  very  comfortable.  The  saloon  was  aft,  with  the 
cabins  grouped  around  it,  or  down  below;  we  had  one 
of  the  latter,  and  there  was  little  ventilation  and  the 
smells  on  board  were  awful.  There  was  no  way  to 
keep  warm  except  to  stand  next  the  smokestack  on 
deck.  There  was  no  protection  on  the  upper  deck, 
there  were  no  chairs,  and  we  had  to  sit  on  rugs  on  the 
deck.  There  was  n't  even  a  smoking-room,  but  an 
enclosed  space  over  the  main  hatch,  called  the  "fid- 
dle," where  the  few  gentlemen  who  smoked  gathered, 
and  told  the  usual  smoking-room  yarns.  After  the 
first  few  days,  however,  I  enjoyed  the  voyage.  There 
was  a  young  man  not  much  older  than  myself,  with 
his  wife,  and  a  lady  friend  travelling  with  them.  He 


ART  103 

also  had  thoughts  of  studying  art,  but  later  gave  it 
up  to  become  an  actor  and  playwright  of  considerable 
reputation.  We  saw  a  good  deal  of  them  later  in 
Paris. 

My  uncle  and  I  stopped  a  few  days  in  London  to 
visit  the  galleries  and  sights  and  see  some  of  my  un- 
cle's friends.  One  of  our  interesting  experiences  was 
being  taken  by  Moncure  Conway  to  see  Carlyle.  He 
received  us  in  a  dingy  old  grey  dressing-gown  and  sat 
humped  up  in  front  of  the  fire,  and  railed  at  almost 
everything,  especially  America,  where  he  had  never 
been  and  never  wished  to  go.  He  was  a  fine,  vigorous 
old  Scotchman,  and  not  at  all  the  rather  sick-looking 
individual  painted  by  Whistler. 

The  pictures  at  the  National  Gallery  interested  me 
very  much,  especially  the  Sir  Joshuas  and  the  Rom- 
neys,  also  the  Turners.  I  had  heard  much  about, 
but  had  never  seen  any  of  Turner's  paintings,  only 
the  drawings  of  the  "Liber  Studiorum,"  which  I  had 
always  admired,  and  of  course  engravings.  I  confess 
his  later  manner  was  rather  too  imaginative  for  my 
taste.  It  is  said  that  a  lady  once  said  to  Turner  that 
she  had  never  seen  any  sunsets  like  the  ones  he 
painted,  to  which  he  replied,  "Don't  you  wish  you 
might.?" 

London  in  late  October  Is  not  a  very  cheerful  place, 
and  all  the  people  we  met  had  sympathized  with  the 


I04  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

South,  and  were  vexed  at  having  put  their  money 
on  the  wrong  horse.  One  gentleman,  who  had  in- 
vested largely  in  Confederate  bonds,  declared  roundly 
that  it  was  an  outrage  that  the  North  would  not  pay 
him  for  them.   So  after  a  week  we  crossed  to  Havre. 

I  shall  never  forget  my  first  landing  in  a  country 
where  everybody  spoke  a  strange  language;  even  the 
children  seemed  wonderfully  clever  to  speak  French 
so  well !  I  found  what  little  French  I  thought  I  knew 
went  nowhere,  and  I  could  not  understand  a  word 
that  was  said.  Fortunately  my  uncle  spoke  French  of 
a  sort. 

At  Rouen  I  had  my  first  view  of  a  Gothic  cathedral, 
and  it  remains  an  ever  vivid  memory.  It  was  toward 
dusk  as  we  entered  into  the  gloom  of  Saint-Ouen 
lighted  only  by  the  jewelled  windows,  far  up  where 
the  columns  seemed  lost  in  a  grey  mist.  How  solemn 
and  inspiring!  It  has  always  seemed  to  me  that  the 
Gothic  is  the  only  style  for  places  of  worship.  It 
seems  to  express  the  yearnings  and  aspirations  of 
the  human  soul  reaching  up  to  the  Infinite. 

Arrived  in  Paris,  the  first  question  was  where  to  es- 
tablish ourselves  for  the  winter.  My  uncle  thought 
the  large  hotels  much  too  expensive,  so  we  started  out 
apartment-hunting.  My  uncle  had  an  obsession  for 
having  a  view,  which  is  not  always  easy  in  a  city.  I 
have  known  him,  if  only  passing  a  night  in  a  place,  to 


ART  los 

chase  all  over  a  hotel  to  get  a  room  with  a  view,  even 
if  we  arrived  after  dark  and  were  leaving  early  the 
next  morning;  much  to  my  disgust  when  I  was  tired 
with  a  long  journey  and  wished  only  to  get  to  bed. 

Finally  he  hit  upon  some  rooms  on  the  outside 
shell,  as  it  were,  of  the  Chatelet  Theatre.  It  was  an 
unfortunate  choice,  I  think,  because,  although  we 
looked  out  on  the  river,  with  all  its  bridges,  and  the 
Conciergerie  directly  opposite,  certainly  a  beautiful 
view,  it  proved  to  be  very  damp  and  cold  from  the 
river  for  a  winter  sojourn.  The  river  fogs  were  often 
so  thick  we  could  not  see  the  street  below,  much  less 
the  beautiful  view  we  had  done  so  much  to  obtain. 
However,  it  was  cheap,  which  was  something.  We 
had  a  small  salon  with  a  tiny  bedroom  on  each  side; 
the  usual  parquet  floor,  which  creaked  whenever  you 
stepped  on  it;  a  few  small  rugs  that  slid  away  from 
under  you;  a  ridiculous  little  square  hole  called  a  fire- 
place, which  we  soon  found,  no  matter  how  extrava- 
gant we  were  with  our  basket  of  wood,  was  quite 
inadequate  to  increase  the  temperature  of  the  rooms 
when  those  terrible  fogs  arrived ;  and  no  sun  could  be 
depended  upon.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  sun  is  a  rare 
sight  in  a  Paris  winter.  I  have  known  a  whole  month 
pass  without  its  once  putting  in  an  appearance;  this 
is  the  more  strange  as  it  is  often  clear  at  night. 

The  concierge,  who  did  our  rooms  and  brought  us 


io6  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

our  morning  coffee  and  petit  paiuy  lived  with  his  wife 
in  a  little  cubby-hole  halfway  up  the  first  flight  of 
stairs.  Where  they  did  their  cooking  I  never  found 
out.  I  hardly  ever  saw  the  wife,  except  when  I  caught 
a  glimpse  of  a  white  cap  when  asking  for  the  cordon  to 
let  us  out,  or  groping  our  way  in  late  at  night,  after 
the  theatre,  perhaps.  We  took  our  luncheons  and 
dinners  out  at  near-by  restaurants,  mostly  at  the  ex- 
travagant price  of  two  or  two  and  a  half  francs  for  the 
dinner,  and  less  for  lunch.  It  was  a  primitive  and 
simple  life,  but  very  delightful  to  look  back  upon. 
Seldom  did  we  go  to  any  of  the  expensive  restaurants 
or  penetrate  to  the  Champs  Elysees  quarter. 

Fortunately  for  me,  my  uncle  was  very  enthusiastic 
about  music  and  art,  and  as  he  had  been  abroad  be- 
fore was  invaluable  as  a  cicerone.  We  took  season 
tickets  for  the  Pasdeloup  concerts  at  the  Cirque 
d'Hiver,  but  unfortunately,  being  late  in  getting 
them,  could  get  seats  only  behind  the  orchestra  in  too 
close  proximity  to  the  kettle-drums  to  get  the  best  ef- 
fect. However,  with  my  uncle  as  guide,  I  was  able  to 
get  acquainted  with  all  the  best  music,  and  have  al- 
ways been  glad  that  my  taste  was  cultivated  so  early, 
so  that  music  has  always  been  a  great  pleasure  to  me. 

Of  course,  we  spent  many  hours  at  the  Louvre 
studying  the  old  masters,  and  here  again  I  owe  a 
great  deal  to  my  uncle  for  his  guidance  and  knowl- 


ART  107 

edge  in  art;  also  at  the  Luxembourg,  where  the  pic- 
tures of  the  modern  French  school  were  shown  in  the 
large  gallery  at  the  eastern  end  of  the  palace,  not,  as 
now,  in  the  Orangerie.  However,  the  great  question 
was.  How  was  I  to  begin  my  studies?  I  had  not  the 
least  idea;  neither  had  my  uncle.  I  did  not  think  of 
entering  the  Beaux-Arts,  because  I  did  not  think  I 
knew  enough,  and  I  spoke  so  little  French. 

There  were  no  Juliens  then,  and  I  knew  no  one  to 
advise  me.  Finally  through  a  Boston  artist,  who  was 
passing  through  Paris,  I  got  an  introduction  to  a  Mr. 
May,  an  American  artist  living  in  Paris.  He  was  very 
kind,  and  not  only  advised  me  to  enter  the  atelier  of 
Ernest  Hebert,  but  took  me  there  himself  and  intro- 
duced me  to  the  massier  or  painter  at  the  head  of  the 
atelier;  also,  as  the  etiquette  required,  to  call  on 
Hebert  at  his  own  studio. 

There  was  nothing  commercial,  like  Julien's  differ- 
ent ateliers,  about  the  atelier  Hebert.  It  was  more 
like  a  club.  You  paid  so  much  to  enter  and  so  much  a 
week  for  hire  of  models,  rent,  and  so  forth.  Hebert 
came  twice  a  week  to  criticise  without  any  pay,  giv- 
ing his  services  for  the  love  of  art,  and  that  was  his 
only  connection  with  the  atelier.  The  atelier  was  in 
the  rue  de  Leval,  just  round  the  corner  from  the  rue 
Pigalle,  in  the  Montmartre  quarter. 

I  was  very  anxious  to  get  to  work,  and  the  very 


io8  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

next  day  after  being  taken  there,  having  in  the  mean- 
time ordered  an  easel,  a  portfolio,  and  a  dozen  sheets 
of  charcoal  paper,  as  well  as  sticks  of  charcoal  and 
some  paper  stumps,  such  as  I  had  seen  most  of  the 
students  using,  I  presented  myself  at  an  early  hour. 

The  atelier  consisted  of  a  large  room  with  almost 
the  entire  side  toward  the  north  given  up  to  a  large 
window,  the  panes  of  which,  I  should  judge,  had  not 
been  washed  since  the  flood.  Opposite  the  door  there 
was  a  raised  platform  for  the  model,  beside  which 
was  a  stove,  and  the  whole  place  reeked  with  the  smell 
of  paint,  turpentine,  and  tobacco  smoke.  Of  course, 
being  in  France,  there  was  no  ventilation,  and  for  the 
sake  of  the  model  the  temperature  had  to  be  in  the 
neighborhood  of  seventy  degrees. 

When  I  arrived,  the  place  was  crowded,  and  as  a 
late  comer  I  had  to  take  what  place  I  could  find  to  set 
up  my  easel.  It  was  one  of  the  rules  of  the  atelier  that 
on  Monday  mornings  those  coming  first  had  first 
choice  as  to  places.  Some  preferred  to  squat  close  to 
the  model  on  low  stools,  others  farther  back  sitting 
down,  while  those  at  the  rear  had  to  stand  up  to  see 
well.  About  a  third  painted  in  oils,  but  the  greater 
number,  not  so  advanced,  were  contented  to  make 
charcoal  drawings. 

There  was  always  more  or  less  of  a  hubbub  going 
on,  some  singing  snatches  of  popular  songs,  in  which 


ART  109 

occasionally  almost  the  whole  room  would  join,  others 
whistling,  others  talking,  and  others  grunting  when 
things  did  not  go  right  with  their  drawing. 

As  I  entered,  the  noise  ceased  for  a  moment  —  Ah! 
nouveau!' —  and  then  it  began  again.  I  found  my  easel 
and  portfolio  in  a  corner  where  it  had  been  left  when 
sent  from  the  color  shop,  and  as  quietly  as  possible 
began  my  work. 

The  model  that  morning  happened  to  be  a  woman, 
and  I  must  confess  that  to  my  Puritan  mind,  and  rev- 
erencing woman  as  I  had  been  taught  to  do,  it  seemed 
to  me  a  dreadful  desecration  to  put  this  poor  naked 
girl  up  for  all  those  ribald  youths  to  stare  at.  You 
must  remember  that  I  had  never  drawn  from  the  nude 
before;  but  I  soon  learned,  what  few  people  under- 
stand, that  artists  regard  their  models,  at  least  when 
they  are  drawing  or  painting  from  them,  as  so  much 
furniture.   The  question  of  sex  does  not  come  in. 

At  the  end  of  the  hour  the  model  was  given  a  rest  of 
five  minutes,  when  cigarettes  were  lighted  and  general 
conversation  broke  out.  I  understood  not  a  word  of 
what  was  going  on,  but  I  suddenly  found  that  all  eyes 
were  turned  on  me,  and  every  one  calling  out  some- 
thing for  my  benefit.  I  had  awful  visions  of  the  haz- 
ings  that  I  had  heard  about,  as  the  racket  grew  louder 
and  louder.  There  was  not  another  American  or  Eng- 
lishman in  the  place,  but  fortunately  a  very  nice- 


no  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

looking  Frenchman  that  sat  near  me  explained  In 
fairly  good  English  that,  as  a  newcomer,  I  was  ex- 
pected to  give  all  hands  a  treat.  So  I  told  him  I 
should  be  delighted,  and  if  he  would  send  out  for  what 
they  wanted,  I  would  be  pleased  to  pay  for  it.  He  ex- 
plained the  situation  to  the  others,  and  the  hubbub 
ceased,  and  I  became  popular  at  once  at  the  expense 
of  a  few  francs. 

Ernest  Hebert,  the  artist,  who  came  twice  a  week 
to  criticise  the  work,  was  well  known  for  his  picture  in 
the  Luxembourg  called  "Malaria,"  a  picture  charm- 
ing in  color  and  sentiment,  and  quite  the  best  thing 
he  ever  did.  His  later  pictures  had  an  unpleasant 
greenish  hue.  He  was  a  little  dark  man  with  melan- 
choly expression,  and  he  was  not  an  inspiring  teacher. 
The  highest  praise  that  he  ever  gave  was  a  "  Pas  mal. " 

He  took  more  interest  naturally  in  the  more  ad- 
vanced men,  who  were  painting  in  oils,  and  rarely 
took  the  trouble  to  pay  much  attention  to  the  rest  of 
us,  usually  only  glancing  at  our  work,  and  either 
giving  a  grunt  of  indifference  to  inferior  work,  or,  as 
I  have  said,  a  ^^  Pas  maV*  for  anything  that  was  really 
good.  Of  course,  he  paid  little  attention  to  me,  and 
I  doubt  if  he  remembered  ever  to  have  seen  me  before. 

Only  on  one  occasion,  after  I  had  been  there  some 
time,  and  had  made,  as  I  thought,  a  more  than  usually 
good  and  careful  drawing,  he  sat  down  in  front  of 


ART  III 

my  work  and,  taking  a  piece  of  charcoal,  without 
saying  a  word,  made  two  strokes  across  my  drawing, 
quite  ruining  it.  I  was  very  angry  at  the  time,  but 
what  he  meant  was  that  I  had  not  put  enough  action 
into  the  figure.  I  thought  this  unjust,  because  the 
model  had  a  difficult  pose  and  had  slumped  toward  the 
end  of  the  hour.  Of  course,  I  had  begun  the  drawing 
as  the  model  had  first  taken  the  pose,  and  could  not 
very  well  alter  it  as  the  model  slumped  more  and  more. 

However,  I  now  see,  what  I  did  not  understand  at 
the  time,  that  just  as  an  actor  has  to  exaggerate  a 
little  in  order  to  get  his  effect  across  the  footlights, 
so  an  artist  must  exaggerate  slightly  to  convey  his 
idea.  The  best  drawing  is  not,  therefore,  the  most 
accurate,  but  style  in  drawing  means  deviating  from 
photographic  exactness.  This  has  been  a  hard  lesson 
for  me  to  learn,  as  my  tendency  has  always  been  to  too 
much  accuracy,  owing,  I  suppose,  to  my  training  as 
an  engineer.  As  Cantine  once  said  to  me,  I  did  not 
let  myself  go;  or,  as  he  expressed  it,  if  I  would  only 
get  drunk,  I  would  do  much  better. 

The  rule  of  the  atelier  was  that  we  had  male  models 
for  three  weeks  of  the  month,  and  a  female  model  for 
the  other  week.  At  the  beginning  of  the  week,  a  vote 
would  be  taken  as  to  the  pose,  and  the  pose  once 
selected  was  the  same  for  the  whole  week.  Most  of 
the   students   made  only  one  drawing  or  painting 


112  RANDOM  IVIEMORIES 

in  the  week,  but  as  I  am  naturally  a  rapid  worker, 
I  often  made  two.  I  did  not  care  to  make  such  a  care- 
ful drawing  as  most  of  the  men,  but  thought  I  should 
get  more  practice  and  knowledge  of  the  figure  by 
changing  my  position  and  making  two  drawings. 

Every  one  did  just  as  he  liked,  in  his  method  of 
work,  though  most  made  smudgy  drawings  in  char- 
coal, using  a  paper  stump  or  lingers.  I  was  pleased 
to  find  that,  although  new  to  this  method  of  work,  my 
drawings  were  better  than  some.  There  were  some 
men  of  over  thirty,  who  had  been  coming  to  the  atelier 
for  years,  who  could  never  learn  to  draw,  but  still 
kept  at  it,  apparently  pleased  with  their  work. 

As  to  the  men  who  painted,  some  had  already 
"arrived,"  as  the  expression  is;  that  is,  had  exhibited 
at  the  Salon,  but  came  back  to  keep  their  hands  in, 
in  work  from  the  life.  There  seemed  to  be  absolutely  no 
system  taught,  but  each  one  followed  his  own  sweet 
will.  There  was  one  I  remember  who  never  used  any 
brushes,  but  put  the  paint  on  with  his  fingers,  and  then 
stirred  it  round,  making  an  awful  mess,  and  covering 
himself  with  paint  in  the  process.  He  was  the  dirtiest 
painter  I  ever  saw.  Some  of  the  best  studies  in  oils 
were  hung  up  on  the  walls,  as  an  example,  and  there 
were  among  them  some  superb  work  done  by  former 
students. 

I  had  little  to  do  with  the  other  students,  as  I  spoke 


ART  113 

so  little  French,  and  picked  it  up  very  slowly.  I  have 
no  talent  for  languages,  and  it  is  impossible  for  me  to 
learn  any.  It  is  odd,  because  my  father  was  an  excel- 
lent linguist,  and  spoke  four  languages  perfectly  be- 
sides his  own,  and  could  turn  from  speaking  one  to 
another  with  perfect  ease.  I  have  often  heard  for- 
eigners remark  with  surprise  how  well  he  spoke  their 
language. 

I  must  say  all  these  Frenchmen,  but  few  of  whom 
were  gentlemen,  treated  me  very  well.  There  was 
no  hazing,  or  chaffing,  and  if  there  were  unkind 
things  said,  I  did  not  know  enough  to  comprehend 
them.  Considering  I  was  the  only  man  in  the  place 
that  was  not  a  Frenchman,  I  think  this  remarkable. 
I  believe,  however,  there  was  one  Swede,  but  he  spoke 
French. 

Sometimes  I  would  go  out  to  lunch  with  some  of  the 
men,  and  they  were  always  very  jolly  and  kind.  We 
usually  went  to  some  cremerie  or  establishment  Duval, 
where  we  got  a  bowl  of  milk  and  some  bread  for  a  few 
sous. 

If  any  one  expects  an  account  of  wild  doings  in  the 
Latin  Quarter,  he  will  be  disappointed,  as  I  saw 
nothing  of  these  things.  Indeed,  I  doubt  if  they  ex- 
ist, except  in  the  imagination  of  men  who  like  to  look 
knowing  when  the  Quarter  is  mentioned,  and  want  it 
to  be  thought  they  were  devils  of  fellows  in  their  youth. 


114  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

I  don't  wish  to  be  thought  a  prude;  but  I  may  have 
been  surrounded  with  sirens  without  knowing  it.  I 
had  come  out  for  work,  not  frivoHty,  and  I  generally 
find  that  one  sees  only  what  one  is  looking  for.  I 
don't  even  know  whether  there  were  Moulins  Rouges  or 
Bals  Boulliers  in  those  days.  The  Jardin  Mabille  was 
then  in  its  glory,  but  I  went  there  only  once,  at  the 
solicitation  of  a  friend.  It  was  a  beautiful  place  with 
its  many  lights  and  shrubberies,  just  off  the  Champs 
Elysees,  but  the  rather  plain  hired  ladies,  who  kicked 
off  gentlemen's  tall  hats  and  displayed  as  much  lin- 
gerie as  possible,  soon  palled  upon  me. 

I  have  to  confess  that  I  have  never  enjoyed  the 
pleasures  that  please  most  men,  and  indeed  have  not 
cared  for  men's  society  very  much.  Clubs  bore  me, 
and  worst  of  all  are  the  large,  men's  dinners  with 
speeches.  I  get  on  very  well  with  other  artists  or  liter- 
ary and  musical  people,  but  the  general  run  of  men 
are  tiresome.  They  want  to  talk  only  about  their 
own  affairs;  if  they  are  golfers,  about  the  wonderful 
strokes  they  have  made;  if  automobilists,  about  where 
they  have  been,  and  the  merits  of  their  particular  car. 

I  enjoy  women's  society  immensely  as  a  relaxation, 
but  only  that  of  bright  women  of  one's  own  class;  not 
that  of  aggressive  women,  or  of  those  who  wish  to  be 
thought  learned.  I  cannot  imagine  finding  amusement 
with  brainless  chorus  girls  or  the  usual  demi-mondaines. 


ART  115 

But  to  return  to  our  "muttons."  It  may  seem 
strange,  but  I  cannot  remember  whether  we  began 
work  at  eight  or  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning,  but  I 
think  the  latter,  although  I  often  on  dark  winter 
mornings  had  to  dress  and  have  breakfast  by  candle- 
light. It  was  quite  a  distance  from  the  place  du  Chate- 
let  to  the  rue  de  Leval,  a  good  half-hour's  rapid  walk, 
and  not  much  less  by  omnibus.  There  was  an  omnibus 
that  went  from  the  Chatelet  to  the  place  Pigalle  that 
I  took  on  rainy  mornings,  but  I  generally  preferred  to 
walk  if  the  mornings  were  at  all  fine.  That  early-morn- 
ing walk  was  delightful;  it  led  through  the  Halle 
Centrale  with  the  market  carts  just  coming  in,  and  all 
the  old  women  in  their  white  caps  bustling  about,  and 
the  trig-looking  bonnes  doing  their  marketing;  then 
on  by  Saint-Eustace,  where  we  often  went  Sunday 
afternoons  to  hear  the  beautiful  music,  up  the  long 
narrow  Boulevard  Poissonniere.  This  was  the  real 
old  Paris.  There  were  the  rag-pickers  about,  with  their 
long  hooks,  searching  the  gutters  and  rubbish-heaps 
for  stray  treasures.  The  shrill  cries,  almost  a  chant,  of 
the  vendors  with  their  little  pushcarts  filled  the  street, 
and  the  freshness  of  the  morning  air  made  the  heart 
glad. 

Then  across  the  Boulevard  Poissonniere,  and  by  the 
little  church  of  Notre  Dame  de  Lorette,  which  used 
to  be  considered  the  centre  of  the  soubrette  quarter, 


1 16  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

I  believe;  but  at  that  early  hour  there  were  no  houris 
about.  Still  on,  breasting  the  hill  that  leads  to 
Montmartre,  and  by  the  rue  Pigalle  to  the  atelier. 
Such  was  my  morning  walk,  and  how  delightful  to 
look  back  upon  and  recall  the  familiar  smells  and 
sounds!   What  a  time  is  youth! 

Not  content  with  working  in  the  morning,  some  of 
us  hired  models  to  come  in  the  afternoons;  at  other 
times  I  went  to  the  Louvre  and  drew  from  the  statues 
or  copied  some  of  the  pictures.  My  favorite  painters 
were  Titian  and  Rembrandt.  I  made  several  copies 
from  each. 

Toward  the  beginning  of  the  year,  Mr.  Mac 

and  his  wife  returned  from  their  travels,  and  settled 
down  not  far  from  us  on  the  Boulevard  Saint-Michel, 
just  across  the  river;  after  that  we  saw  a  good  deal  of 
them,  and  Mr.  M.  and  I  took  a  studio  together,  where 
I  worked  some  of  the  time.  He  was  a  very  versatile 
person;  full  of  enthusiasm  for  all  sorts  of  things,  but 
wanting  in  stability,  I  thought.  He  would  not  go  to  an 
atelier  to  learn  to  draw,  but  wanted  to  paint  right  off. 
He  had  had  some  instruction  from  Page,  the  artist, 
who  at  one  time  had  quite  a  vogue.  Page,  though  a 
good  draughtsman,  had  theories.  He  thought  he  had 
discovered  the  secret  of  the  Venetian  coloring,  and 
indulged  in  glaze  after  glaze  on  his  pictures  to  get  that 
rich  amber  tone.    Unfortunately,  so  many  oil  glazes 


smoker:  a  portrait  study 
(Alexander  Longfellow) 


ART  117 

In  time  turned  black,  and  all  his  portraits  have  been 
ruined.  Mr.  M.  had  these  theories  from  him,  and 
tried  to  convince  me  of  their  soundness,  but  after  one 
or  two  experiments  I  gave  It  up,  and  ever  since  have 
fought  shy  of  theories  in  art. 

Mrs.  M.  confided  to  me  that  they  had  not  really 
come  abroad  to  study  art,  when  I  suggested  that  her 
husband  did  not  seem  very  keen  about  his  studies, 
but  to  consume  the  time  while  they  got  a  divorce.  It 
seems  that  they  had  taken  a  room  for  a  year  at  In- 
dianapolis, then  the  centre  for  divorces,  and  had  left 
a  trunk  there,  to  comply  with  the  legal  requirements, 
while  they  travelled  in  Europe.  The  funny  part  of  the 
situation  was  that  the  lady  who  was  travelling  with 
them  was  the  lady  whom  Mr.  M.  was  to  marry  after 
the  divorce  was  obtained.  She  was  Mrs.  M.'s  most 
intimate  friend,  but  because  Mrs.  M.  loved  her  hus- 
band and  also  her  friend  so  much,  she  wished  them  to 
be  happy,  and,  therefore,  she  was  to  retire  and  leave 
them  to  be  married  and  live  happy  ever  after.  Cer- 
tainly a  remarkable  situation,  brought  about  In  a  great 
measure,  I  believe,  by  a  book  called,  I  think,  "Coun- 
terparts," which  was  then  very  popular,  and  which 
advocated  letting  "  affinities "  take  It  Into  their  own 
hands  and  go  off  together.  Mr.  M.  did  afterwards 
marry  the  other  lady,  and  his  first  wife,  I  believe, 
also  married  again. 


1 1 8  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

In  the  middle  of  the  winter,  another  American 
turned  up  at  the  ateUer  Hebert.  Henry  Marker  had 
been  an  artist  for  "  Harper's  Weekly  "  during  the  Civil 
War,  and  had  then  gone  to  Munich  to  study.  When 
he  came  to  Paris,  therefore,  he  had  already  acquired 
a  good  deal  of  the  technique  of  painting.  He  made  ex- 
cellent studies  in  oils,  mostly  of  the  head,  and  had 
great  facility.  He  afterwards  had  much  success  with 
Brittany  subjects  and  was  a  well-known  exhibitor 
at  the  Salon,  receiving,  I  believe,  several  medals.  It 
was  a  relief  to  have  some  one  to  talk  to  in  my  own 
tongue.  He  was  a  pleasant  fellow,  and  then  un- 
married ;  years  afterwards  I  met  him  with  an  invalid 
son  on  a  Mediterranean  steamer,  and  we  recalled 
with  pleasure  our  former  comradeship. 

I  cannot  pretend  that  the  life  at  the  atelier  was 
very  agreeable  to  a  sensitive  and  fastidious  person, 
and  I  also  found  the  gloomy  weather  of  the  Paris 
winter  very  trying  and  depressing,  so  that  I  welcomed 
my  uncle's  suggestion  that  we  should  go  to  Italy  in 
March,  and  study  the  old  masters  there.  Of  course, 
it  would  have  been  better  to  have  stuck  it  out  longer 
at  the  atelier,  but  the  prospect  of  sunshine  in  Italy 
was  too  tempting. 

Accordingly,  we  departed  in  the  middle  of  March 
by  train  to  Nice,  and  then  after  a  few  days  drove  by 
carriage  along  the  Cornice  Road  to  Genoa.  There  was 


ART  119 

no  railroad  then,  and  what  an  enchanting  three  days 
that  was!  Alfred  Tennyson's  poem  of  "The  Daisy" 
gives  a  far  better  description  of  that  drive  than  I  can, 
and  is  worth  recalling. 

From  Genoa,  after  studying  the  Van  Dycks,  we 
took  diligence  to  Spezzia,  where  again  we  could  take 
the  train  for  Pisa.  The  railroad  from  Pisa  to  Rome 
then  extended  only  a  little  beyond  Leghorn,  where 
we  had  to  get  into  a  diligence  for  a  long  night  ride. 
What  a  night  that  was !  We  could  not  get  a  seat  in  the 
coupe  and  were  jammed  into  the  interior  with  a  lot 
of  Italians  who  smelled  of  garlic.  They  told  us  it  was 
quite  likely  we  should  be  held  up  by  brigands,  as  the 
route  we  were  obliged  to  travel  was  infested  with  them, 
and  they  had  fearful  tales  to  tell  of  other  diligences 
being  stopped,  and  the  passengers  robbed,  if  not  car- 
ried off  for  ransom.  I  remember  several  of  the  women 
proceeded  to  hide  their  jewelry  in  their  stockings  and 
inside  their  corsets,  quite  regardless  of  exposure  of 
legs  and  bosoms.  Fortunately,  the  oil  lamp  gave  little 
light. 

I  shall  never  forget  how  my  legs  and  back  ached 
from  our  cramped  position,  and  that  dreadful  twitch- 
ing of  the  former  which  comes  when  you  are  sleepy 
and  can't  sleep. 

Suddenly  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  just  as  I  had 
begun  to  doze  off,  the  diligence  stopped,  and  we  all  felt 


120  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

sure  our  hour  had  come,  and  the  brigands  had  arrived. 
The  guard  informed  us  that  the  gentlemen  must  all 
get  out,  so  we  expected  to  be  stood  up  against  a  wall 
and  have  our  pockets  emptied.  It  proved,  however, 
to  be  nothing  worse  than  a  bad  and  muddy  road,  in 
which  the  diligence  was  stuck,  on  the  slope  of  a  rather 
steep  hill.  So  we  all  put  our  shoulders  to  the  wheels, 
and  managed  to  get  the  ponderous  vehicle  to  the 
top.  Nothing  further  happened  till  we  reached  Civlta 
Vecchia,  where  we  took  the  train  for  Rome. 

The  first  glimpse  of  the  dome  of  Saint  Peter's  must 
send  a  thrill  through  any  one  not  hardened  by  much 
travel.  Rome  in  those  days  was  a  medieval  city.  The 
Pope  still  drove  in  state  through  the  streets,  while  all 
the  people  fell  on  their  knees  in  the  mud  as  he  passed. 
Cardinals  were  as  thick  as  blackberries,  and  In  their 
scarlet  robes  gave  a  welcome  bit  of  color  as  they 
walked  in  the  villas  or  on  the  Pinclo.  The  streets 
were  ill-paved  and  ill-lighted,  and  it  was  not  con- 
sidered safe  to  walk  alone  at  night  in  any  but  the 
most  frequented  thoroughfares. 

The  Coliseum  was  still  draped  in  Its  mantle  of  moss 
and  hanging  vines,  before  the  hand  of  archaeologists 
had  scraped  and  repaired  Its  crumbling  walls,  In  what 
they  call  preservation  —  Heaven  save  the  mark! 

The  Forum  was  a  resting-place  for  those  magnificent 
white  oxen  attached  to  the  red-wheeled  carts  of  the 


ART  121 

Campagna,  not  as  now  a  perfect  rabbit  warren,  with 
so  many  holes  dug  in  it  that  it  no  longer  resembles  a 
Forum — ^all  to  make  a  Roman  holiday  for  the  anti- 
quaries! There  were  no  new  streets  and  brand-new 
apartments,  but  crumbling  walls,  ruins,  and  decay, 
much  more  picturesque  and  interesting  than  at 
present. 

William  Story,  the  sculptor,  was  then  at  the  zenith 
of  his  fame,  and  was  turning  out  his  stiff,  classical 
statues  of  Cleopatra,  Medea,  etc.,  much  to  his  own 
satisfaction  and  that  of  the  English  public,  who  were 
his  chief  patrons.  Mr.  Story  was  a  most  charming  man, 
but  as  a  sculptor  perhaps  the  less  said  the  better.  The 
best  thing  he  ever  did  was  the  memorial  to  his  wife, 
in  the  English  cemetery  in  Rome.  Henry  James  was 
asked  by  the  Story  family  to  write  a  life  of  Mr.  Story, 
but  when  it  was  done  it  was  so  much  more  about  Mr. 
James  than  Mr.  Story  that  I  believe  the  family  were 
not  at  all  pleased.  I  remember  the  Story  boys  —  who 
afterward  became  famous  as  artist  and  sculptor  — 
home  on  vacation  in  their  Eton  jackets.  Mrs.  Story 
was  very  fond  of  English  society,  especially  when 
titled,  and  received  in  state  on  the  top  floor  of  the 
Palazzo  Barberini. 

Tilton,  another  American,  was  a  painter  of  some  suc- 
cess in  Rome  at  that  time.  He  was  a  Portland  boy  and 
had  been  helped  by  my  father  when  beginning  his 


122  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

career.  He  was,  therefore,  very  friendly.  He  was  tre- 
mendously conceited  and  people  made  much  fun  of  him 
on  that  account.  He  used  to  say,  "How  remarkable 
it  is  that  the  names  of  most  great  painters  begin 
with  T!  —  Titian,  Tintoretto,  Turner " ;  and  then  he 
would  pause  and  everybody  was  expected  to  add 
"Tilton."  He  was  a  follower,  so  he  thought,  of 
Turner — a  long  way  behind  —  and  used  to  boast 
that  only  his  pictures  and  Turner's  looked  equally 
well  upside  down. 

We  had  lodgings  near  the  Hotel  d'Angleterre,  and 
I  was  much  shocked  when  we  were  going  away,  and 
had  asked  the  proprietor  to  have  our  luggage  taken 
down,  to  have  him  calmly  put  the  trunks  on  his  wife's 
head  to  take  downstairs,  while  he  sauntered  down 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets — having  previously 
put  his  hands  into  mine  pretty  deeply. 

Of  course  we  spent  much  time  at  the  Vatican  and 
other  galleries,  and  I  learned  a  great  deal  from  study- 
ing the  pictures  and  sculptures.  I  was  not  like  an 
American  sculptress  who  was  asked,  after  being  two 
years  in  Rome,  if  she  did  not  get  much  inspiration 
from  the  magnificent  statues  at  the  Vatican.  She 
replied  that  she  had  never  been  there,  because  she 
did  not  wish  to  lose  her  originality. 

We  stayed  in  Rome  over  Easter  to  see  the  cere- 
monies at  Saint  Peter's,  which  were  very  impressive, 


ART  123 

especially  when  the  Pope  came  out  on  the  balcony  to 
bless  the  people.  It  was  a  wonderful  sight  to  see  that 
whole  vast  piazza  filled  with  kneeling  people  to  re- 
ceive the  benediction  of  that  sweet-faced  old  man  in 
white,  far  above  them.  Since  1870  that  sight  has  never 
been  seen  again. 

It  seems  hard  to  believe  now  that  Italy  was  then 
divided  up  into  separate  states  and  that  we  had  to 
get  our  passports  back  from  the  police,  who  had  taken 
possession  of  them  on  our  arrival,  and  have  them 
viseed  for  Naples.  This  is  not  a  chronicle  of  travel, 
but  merely  a  hasty  sketch  of  my  early  experiences. 
Therefore  I  shall  not  say  much  about  our  stay  in 
Naples,  nor  have  I  attempted  to  expatiate  on  the 
wonders  of  Rome. 

We  did  the  usual  things  at  Naples  and  we  explored 
Pompeii,  which  I  must  say  impresses  one  wonderfully 
on  a  first  visit,  and  I  think  was  perhaps  more  in- 
teresting when  there  was  not  so  much  uncovered,  and 
when  the  imagination  had  full  play  as  to  what  still 
remained  a  mystery  in  the  life  of  this  dead  city.  After 
all  it  is  not  so  much  what  one  sees  in  their  desolate 
and  rather  monotonous  streets  of  ruined  houses,  but 
in  the  picture  that  is  conjured  up  by  the  imagination. 

We  also  visited  Herculaneum,  that  mysterious  city 
entombed,  clasped  in  the  embrace  of  the  deadly  lava. 
What  a  pity  the  Italian  Government,  dog-in-the- 


124  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

manger-like,  will  not  permit  others  to  explore  these 
hidden  treasures  when  they  are  unable  to  do  so  them- 
selves. 

We  went,  of  course,  to  Capri,  that  enchanted  isle, 
and  to  Sorrento  and  Amalfi.  From  Salerno,  as  there 
was  no  railroad  then,  we  went  to  Paestum  by  car- 
riage. The  district  between  Salerno  and  Paestum  was 
much  frequented  by  bandits  at  that  time,  so  the 
Government  insisted  on  our  having  an  escort  of  cav- 
alry. The  year  before,  an  Englishman  had  been 
captured  and  a  large  ransom  demanded;  as  the  ran- 
som was  not  forthcoming  with  sufficient  promptness, 
they  cut  off  one  of  his  ears  and  sent  it  to  the  family  in 
England,  and  followed  it  with  the  other  ear  to  hurry 
up  matters.  Three  or  four  years  later,  in  Rome,  I 
saw  a  man  at  a  reception  that  had  something  pe- 
culiar about  his  appearance.  He  had  no  ears,  and  that 
was  the  very  man,  so  I  know  the  story  was  true. 
You  can't  imagine  how  queer  he  looked !  As  the  ex- 
pense of  a  carriage  with  mounted  escort  was  consid- 
erable, we  combined  with  two  Englishmen  for  the 
trip.  No  brigands  appeared,  though  we  saw  plenty  of 
villainous-looking  peasants  working  in  the  fields,  that 
no  doubt  could  have  turned  themselves  into  brigands 
at  a  moment's  notice  if  there  had  been  no  escort. 

Paestum  was  much  more  desolate  in  those  days 
than  it  is  to-day,  and  therefore  much  more  impres- 


ART  125 

sive.  There  was  no  railroad  station  or  other  build- 
ings, and  the  land  had  not  been  drained.  Nothing 
but  those  solemn  ruins  in  a  wet  and  deserted  plain. 
It  was  said  to  be  death  to  pass  the  night  there  owing 
to  malaria,  and  I  can  well  believe  it. 

Of  course,  while  at  Naples  I  climbed  Vesuvius  with 
some  acquaintances,  and  a  wonderful  sight  it  was 
looking  down  into  that  devils'  cauldron  of  the  crater, 
with  steam  and  poisonous  vapors  rising  all  around  us. 

It  was  then  that  I  heard  for  the  first  time  of  the 
Italian  who,  showing  Vesuvius  to  an  American,  said, 
"There!  you  have  n't  anything  like  that  in  America.'* 
"Pooh!  if  we  turned  Niagara  on  that  it  would  put  it 
out  in  a  minute,"  said  the  American.  This  story  has 
been  brought  down  to  date  by  putting  it  into  the 
mouth  of  Mr.  McAdoo  on  his  visit  to  Naples  during 
the  World  War. 

In  the  spring  of  1 866,  war  was  threatening  in  Europe, 
so  we  did  not  linger  in  Rome  on  our  return,  but  started 
for  Florence  by  way  of  Perugia  almost  immediately. 
We  could  go  only  as  far  as  Foligno  by  rail,  as  no  rail- 
road was  finished  then  through  to  Florence.  At  Fo- 
ligno we  were  transferred  to  a  diligence,  and  when  we 
arrived  at  the  steep  hill  leading  to  Perugia,  they  at- 
tached two  magnificent  milk-white  oxen  to  pull  us  up 
the  hill.  Perugia  still  belonged,  I  think,  to  the  Papal 
States ;  at  all  events,  the  fortress  that  stood  where  the 


126  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

parade  ground  is  now  was  still  there,  and  the  only 
hotel  was  outside  the  gates.  It  was  in  this  hotel  only 
a  few  years  before  that  the  Papal  soldiers,  when  they 
retook  the  town,  nearly  murdered  Mr.  Edward  Per- 
kins and  his  wife,  of  Boston.  The  landlord  told  us 
how  he  had  hidden  them  in  a  closet,  when  his  hotel 
was  ransacked  and  several  people  killed.  It  must 
have  been  a  frightful  experience. 

We  enjoyed  the  Peruginos  and  Raphaels  and  the 
quaint  streets  of  this  truly  medieval  city.  None  of 
the  old  cities  of  Italy  has  kept  its  character  better 
than  Perugia,  and  I  always  enjoy  revisiting  it,  which 
I  have  done  many  times. 

I  suppose  we  drove  to  Assisi,  but  I  can't  remember 
now,  I  have  been  there  so  often  since.  On  reaching 
Florence,  we  devoted  ourselves  to  the  pictures  and 
churches,  but  although  we  were  in  a  hurry  to  get  to 
Venice  before  the  war  broke  out,  we  had  time  to  study 
the  many  galleries  and  works  of  art  pretty  thoroughly. 

What  a  lovely  city  it  is,  with  its  wonderful  setting 
in  the  beautiful  valley  of  the  Arno!  After  the  gloom 
of  Rome,  amongst  its  crumbling  ruins,  how  cheerful 
and  bright  it  seems !  One  is  never  tired  of  standing  on 
the  Ponte  Vecchio  and  looking  at  the  rushing  river, 
or  wandering  among  the  treasures  of  the  Uffizi  or 
Pitti,  or  dreaming  away  a  sunny  afternoon  in  the 
beautiful  Boboli  Gardens  or  the  Caschini. 


ART  127 

At  last  we  tore  ourselves  away,  and  went  to  Bologna 
—  more  pictures;  and  then  on  to  Ravenna  to  see  the 
mosaics  and  Dante's  tomb,  and  wandered  in  the 
Pineta,  which  had  not  then  been  destroyed  by  fire. 

Finally  we  reached  Venice,  then  in  Austrian  hands. 
Austrian  soldiers  were  everywhere.  Austrian  bands 
played  in  the  Piazza,  but  to  empty  space;  no  Italian 
would  think  of  being  seen  there  listening  to  the  music; 
only  the  pigeons  flew  about,  and  were  indifferent  to 
the  oppressors.  We  had  the  galleries  and  churches 
almost  to  ourselves,  as  there  were  few  or  no  tourists. 
The  beautiful  palaces  looked  down  on  empty  canals, 
and  there  was  a  general  air  of  expectancy  like  the 
hush  before  a  thunder-storm. 

We  were  warned  that  the  frontiers  of  Venice  might 
be  closed  any  day,  and  no  foreigners  allowed  to  depart, 
so  we  did  our  sight-seeing  as  rapidly  as  possible.  I 
shall  never  forget,  however,  my  first  impression  of 
those  glowing  canvases,  and  the  Venetian  school  has 
ever  since  been  my  favorite.  We  were  fortunate  in 
seeing  the  wonderful  picture  of  "  Saint  Peter  Martyr," 
by  Titian,  which  was  destroyed  by  fire  the  following 
year,  and  of  which  only  a  memory  now  remains. 

We  left  Venice  just  in  time,  for  the  following  day 
nobody  was  given  permission  to  leave.  A  fellow- 
countryman  of  ours  who  attempted  to  get  away,  and 
had  hired  a  boat  to  cross  the  Po  from  Mantua,  was 


128  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

fired  upon  by  Austrian  sentries,  although  war  had 
not  actually  begun.  Fortunately,  he  got  safely  across. 
We  then  went  to  Como,  which  was  full  of  Gari- 
baldians  in  their  red  shirts,  and  we  had  the  good  for- 
tune to  see  Garibaldi  himself.  We  took  the  steamer  up 
the  lake  next  day,  meaning  to  stay  at  Bellaggio,  but 
at  the  wharf  at  Cadenabbia  we  were  hailed  by  friends 
from  home,  and  induced  to  get  off  there.  Cadenabbia 
has  ever  since  been  our  favorite  spot  on  the  lake,  and 
it  was  owing  to  this  chance  that  my  father  went  there 
in  1868  and  gave  the  world  his  well-known  poem  of 
Cadenabbia  beginning  — 

"No  sound  of  wheels  or  hoof-beat  breaks 
The  silence  of  the  summer  day." 

In  those  days  there  was  no  way  of  getting  to  Cade- 
nabbia save  by  boat  or  walking.  Alas,  now,  even  the 
noisy  automobile  disturbs  the  quiet  of  the  summer's 
day,  but  the  lake  remains  as  lovely  as  ever. 

One  day,  when  we  had  made  an  expedition  to  the 
head  of  the  lake,  my  uncle,  who  had  separated  from 
the  rest  of  the  party,  was  poking  about  the  little 
town  and  talking  to  the  peasants,  as  was  his  wont, 
when  he  was  suddenly  arrested  as  an  Austrian  spy. 
He  certainly  had  a  German  look  with  his  reddish  beard. 
He  was  marched  off  to  the  guard-house,  where  for- 
tunately he  was  able  to  produce  his  letter  of  credit  on 
Barings  and  to  prove  that  he  was  an  American. 


CHAPTER  VII 

ITALIAN  ART 

While  we  rest  on  the  shores  of  this  most  beautiful  of 
lakes,  an  epitome  of  all  that  is  most  charming  in 
Italy,  —  color,  atmosphere,  picturesque  villages,  and 
lofty  mountains, — it  is  a  good  opportunity  to  cast  an 
eye  backward  on  the  art  treasures  of  this  wonderful 
country  that  I  had  seen  for  the  first  time.  I  had  now 
had  a  chance  to  study  with  some  care  the  paintings 
and  sculpture  of  Its  many  galleries  and  churches. 
I  had  become  familiar  with  the  different  schools  and 
the  characteristics  of  the  different  artists. 

It  is  a  great  trial  to  any  one  who  has  become  famil- 
iar with  certain  pictures  that  one  has  In  one's  mind  as 
indicating  the  style  of  an  artist,  to  have  some  of  these 
later  commentators,  like  Berenson,  come  along,  and 
attribute  them  to  somebody  else;  especially  if  you 
cannot  agree  with  his  method  of  attribution.  Artists 
do  not  always  work  from  the  same  models,  and  make 
noses  or  ears  always  alike;  also  different  artists  some- 
times use  the  same  model.  I  do  not  think  any  one  who 
has  not  painted  himself  can  be  so  good  a  judge  of  the 
technique  of  a  picture  or  so  surely  detect  the  manner- 
isms of  an  artist  as  one  who  has. 


130  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

There  is  no  subject  about  which  so  much  rubbish 
has  been  written  as  art.  Literary  people  sit  themselves 
down  before  a  picture  and  let  their  imaginations  run 
wild.  They  see  all  sorts  of  things  in  the  picture  that 
I  am  sure  the  artist  never  thought  of.  It  is  like  the 
commentators  of  Shakespeare,  who  twist  and  turn 
the  text,  or  find  an  imaginary  cipher  —  like  the 
Baconians.  Just  as  some  people  seem  to  think  that 
poetry,  if  easy  to  understand,  cannot  be  poetry,  so 
others  find  dark  and  hidden  mysteries  in  pictures;  we 
have  even  come  to  Cubists,  with  their  unintelligible 
jumble  of  parallelograms,  which  may  be  "a  nude 
descending  the  stairs,"  or  anything  else  you  like. 
Great  is  the  power  of  unbridled  imagination!  At  least, 
however,  let  us  remain  within  the  limits  of  nature. 
Let  art  be  sane,  and  not  follow  the  evil  imaginations 
of  degenerate  minds. 

I  believe  it  is  said  that  man  cannot  imagine  any- 
thing that  he  has  not  seen.  Dragons  and  such  other 
wild  beasts  are  only  combinations  of  things  seen.  Look 
at  the  grotesques  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci ;  they  are  only 
features  of  man  or  beast  in  unusual  combination.  So 
as  a  rule  I  think  pictures  direct  from  nature  are  more 
satisfactory  in  the  long  run  than  imaginary  land- 
scapes. I  prefer,  myself,  Corot's  pictures  from  nature 
to  his  more  imaginary  works.  I  know  this  is  not  the 
generally  received  opinion.  I  do  not,  however,  think 


ITALIAN  ART  131 

the  human  mind  can  conceive  of  trees  or  clouds  or 
hills  more  beautiful  than  nature  has  given  them  to  us. 
The  classical  landscapes  of  Claude  or  Turner  may  be 
full  of  light,  of  beautiful  composition,  of  fantastic 
ruins,  but  after  all  they  leave  you  cold,  compared  to 
the  real  thing;  they  are  but  translations  or  arrange- 
ments, and  do  not  give  us  as  much  pleasure  as  a 
nearer  transcript  and  more  intimate  view  from  nature 
would  do. 

In  studying  the  Greek  and  Roman  statuary  in 
Rome  and  Naples,  one  cannot  help  noticing  how  close 
to  nature  they  are.  Some  of  the  busts  in  marble  or 
bronze  might  be  of  living  people,  so  real  are  they.  The 
Greek  statues  are,  of  course,  idealized.  It  does  not 
seem  possible  that  such  beautiful  forms  ever  existed ; 
they  certainly  do  not  now,  except  in  very  exceptional 
circumstances.  Only  once  in  a  model  have  I  seen  those 
beautiful  pointed  breasts  that  you  find  in  the  old 
statues  of  women  and  that  have  ever  been  the  ideal 
for  artists.  It  is  the  same  for  the  feet  and  hands;  we 
have  to  copy  the  feet  of  the  old  statues  because  in 
these  days  we  never  see  feet  that  have  not  been  ruined 
by  shoes,  or  knocked  out  of  shape  by  hard  usage. 

Of  course,  the  Greeks  had  one  advantage  in  treat- 
ing the  human  form;  they  were  much  more  familiar 
with  the  nude  in  everyday  life,  and  could  watch  the 
play  of  the  muscles  in  sunshine  or  shade,  while  we 


132  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

can  study  It  only  in  the  studio  from  indifferent  models 
and  in  an  artificial  light.  Some  artists  have  tried 
posing  models,  mostly  female,  en  plein  air,  but  I 
think  the  result  is  seldom  satisfactory.  The  nude  out 
of  doors  is  too  realistic;  you  wish  the  lady  would  put 
on  her  clothes. 

The  great  difference  between  Greek  art  and  that 
of  to-day  is  that  they  are  never  too  realistic,  and  that 
is  the  true  secret  why  their  art  is  never  disagreeable. 
They  treat  the  human  body  in  a  broad  and  simple 
way,  and  do  not  go  too  much  into  detail  or  dwell  on 
the  defects  of  the  model,  but  always  have  In  mind  that 
beauty  should  be  the  one  aim  in  art. 

At  the  present  moment  there  is  a  great  vogue  for 
Rodin.  I  am  taking  my  Hfe  in  my  hands  by  criticising 
him  in  any  way ;  but  contrast  his  "  The  Age  of  Bronze  " 
with,  say,  "the  man  with  the  strigil,"  in  the  Vatican. 

The  back  of  Rodin's  man  is  all  cut  up  with  muscles, 
and  he  stands  so  Insecurely  on  his  feet  that  he  looks 
as  if  he  would  topple  over;  the  abdomen  Is  also  over- 
elaborated.  The  proud  boast  of  the  admirers  of  Rodin 
is  that  when  this  figure  was  first  exhibited,  people 
thought  It  must  have  been  done  from  a  cast  of  a  living 
man.  Perhaps  it  was;  but  that  is  not  art.  Contrast 
that  with  the  beautiful  broad  muscles  of  the  back  of 
the  Greek  statue,  which  stands  so  lightly  on  its  feet, 
it  seems  ready  to  move.  Compare  Rodin's  "Thinker" 


ITALIAN  ART  133 

^-  great  clumsy  brute,  who  is  all  animal  and  had  never 
a  thought  above  feeding,  and  looks  as  if  he  were  con- 
templating murder  —  with  Michael  Angelo's  "  II  Pen- 
seroso"  in  Florence. 

We  can  admire  a  torso  without  arms  or  legs  of  some 
old  Greek  statue,  because  that  is  all  that  is  left  to  us, 
alas;  but  deliberately  to  make  such  a  mutilated  ob- 
ject is  an  affectation,  if  not  an  impertinence.  Rodin 
once  actually  exhibited  at  the  Salon  a  pair  of  legs 
walking  off  without  any  body. 

It  seems  to  me  that  of  our  American  sculptors 
French  has  more  of  the  Greek  than  any  other.  Saint- 
Gaudens  is  more  akin  to  the  Renaissance  sculptors, 
or  the  modern  French  school,  in  his  work.  MacMon- 
nies  treats  his  subjects  too  much  as  if  they  were 
paintings. 

To  return  to  the  sculpture  of  Italy;  I  suppose  it  is 
an  accepted  fact  that  most  of  it  is  Roman  reproduc- 
tion of  Greek  work;  or,  as  in  the  bronzes  in  the  Museum 
at  Naples,  done  by  Greek  artists  transported  to  Italy. 
As  in  translations,  so  in  reproductions,  something  is 
lost — the  personal  final  touch  given  by  the  artist  him- 
self. We  must  go  to  Greece,  then,  for  the  more  per- 
fect work,  and,  alas,  how  little  is  left  there  uninjured ! 
Compared  with  Greek  work  in  its  perfect  grace,  how 
clumsy  and  awkward  Michael  Angelo's  "David" 
appears!  yet  it  is  full  of  power.    I  much  prefer  his 


134  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

"Moses"  or  the  Medici  tombs;  his  "Pieta"  shows 
a  more  graceful  side  of  his  art,  and  is  beautiful. 

There  are  many,  especially  in  these  days,  who  pre- 
fer strength  to  any  other  quality;  the  more  strong 
and  brutal  a  thing  is,  the  better  they  like  it.  They  no 
longer  care  for  beauty  or  for  any  of  the  finer  qualities 
in  a  work  of  art.  It  seems  to  me  this  is  a  primitive 
and  savage  taste;  they,  like  the  savage,  like  raw  and 
violent  coloring  and  brutal  and  unrefined  modelling. 
Refinement  of  line  and  delicate  shades  of  color  have 
given  place  to  careless  drawing,  supposed  to  represent 
freedom,  and  paintiness,  instead  of  beauty  of  surface. 
The  impressionists,  in  the  search  for  what  they  call 
play  of  color,  have  substituted  opaque  paint  for  the 
beautiful  transparent  shades  that  come  from  thin 
films  of  color  lightly  laid  on.  The  result  is  a  chalky 
effect  which  is  added  to  by  their  endeavor  to  force  the 
key  up,  to  get  an  effect  of  light.  Monet,  the  great 
exponent  of  light,  used  great  blobs  of  paint  to  catch 
the  light,  but  I  am  convinced  that  in  a  few  years  they 
will  also  catch  the  dirt,  and  in  the  end  the  pictures 
will  lose  their  brilliancy.  In  fact  I  think  already  many 
of  them  have  done  so.  This  is  one  of  the  things  art- 
ists have  to  contend  against;  color  settles  down  a  tone 
or  two  when  it  dries  or  gets  old;  it  gathers  tone,  but 
never  is  so  brilliant  as  after  the  first  painting.  Shad- 
ows of  the  earlier  schools,  especially  the  Munich,  and 


ITALIAN  ART  135 

some  of  the  Barbison  painters,  they  prefer  to  see  colors 
in  shadow  which  do  not  exist.  They  start  off  with  an 
assumption  of  purple  shadows  in  near-by  objects 
which  they  do  not  see,  and  then,  to  prevent  the  pic- 
ture being  too  cold  in  color,  they  have  to  put  in  a  lot 
of  orange  to  counteract  it,  which  also  they  do  not  see- 
So  the  whole  thing  is  false.  But  people  are  told  to 
applaud,  and  they  do  applaud.  Alfred  Stevens,  the 
Belgian  painter,  who  is  claimed  by  the  impressionists, 
although  he  is  anything  but  an  impressionist,  said 
that  it  was  a  curious  fact  that  all  the  impressionists 
had  the  same  impression. 

However,  we  have  wandered  a  long  way  from  the 
art  of  Italy  that  I  was  talking  about.  Of  course,  in 
these  hasty  sketches,  which  must  seem  necessarily 
crude,  I  cannot  go  very  deeply  into  the  subject,  but 
can  only  skim  the  surface.  Italian  art  from  Giotto  or 
Cimabue  to  Tiepolo  covers  a  wide  range.  It  may  be 
divided  roughly  into  three  groups  —  the  so-called 
primitives,  the  draughtsmen,  and  the  colorists. 

The  primitives,  deficient  in  drawing  and  often  stiff 
and  awkward  in  the  poses  of  their  figures,  were  im- 
bued with  a  genuine  religious  fervor  that  seems  to 
add  to,  rather  than  to  detract  from,  the  charm  of 
many  of  their  pictures.  Our  moderns  are  sadly  mis- 
taken who  seem  to  think  that  by  intentionally  bad 
drawing  they  are  going  to  recapture  this  feeling,  when 


136  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

it  is  all  an  affectation  and  they  have  no  genuine  feel- 
ing in  the  matter.  You  cannot  be  naive  and  primitive 
to  order,  because  it  is  not  the  stiff  and  incorrect 
drawing,  but  the  utter  sincerity  that  counts. 

The  Tuscan  and  Umbrian  schools  were  deficient  in 
beautiful  color,  but  relied  upon  drawing  and  design 
for  their  effect.  Raphael's  pictures  are  many  of  them 
very  black  in  color,  although  the  composition  and 
drawing  cannot  be  surpassed.  His  earlier  pictures  under 
the  influence  of  Perugino  were  clear  in  coloring,  but 
when  he  came  under  the  influence  of  Michael  Angelo, 
in  his  endeavor  to  reinstate  the  vigor  of  the  latter,  he 
seems  to  have  lost  his  eye  for  color.  Michael  Angelo, 
in  his  grandiose  if  sometimes  over-exaggerated  draw- 
ing, seemed  to  care  little  for  color.  Of  course  the  "Last 
Judgment"  is  so  discolored  by  smoke  that  it  is  im- 
possible to  judge  its  original  state.  The  ceiling  of 
the  Sistine  Chapel,  however,  is  fairly  well  preserved. 
In  both  these  men,  the  design  and  drawing  have  pre- 
occupied them,  and  also  perhaps  they  have  felt  that 
much  color  was  out  of  place  in  decorative  work.  Of 
course,  work  in  fresco  —  that  is,  painting  on  fresh 
plaster  —  does  not  lend  itself  to  brilliant  effects,  but 
rather  to  subdued  tints. 

It  is  a  curious  fact  that  while  you  would  expect  the 
southern  artists  to  revel  in  color,  it  is  the  artists  from 
northern  Italy  who  have  the  more  beautiful  coloring; 


ITALIAN  ART  137 

undoubtedly  the  Venetian  painters  must  have  been 
influenced  by  the  relation  of  Venice  to  the  Orient,  and 
perhaps  they  had  some  secret  varnish  or  glaze  ac- 
quired from  there  that  gave  their  pictures  that  mar- 
vellous amber  glow.  We  are  so  much  accustomed  to 
dwell  on  the  color  of  the  Venetians  that  we  are  in- 
clined to  overlook  the  perfection  of  their  composition 
and  drawing.  Tintoretto  drew  with  all  the  vigor  of 
Michael  Angelo,  and  the  drawing  of  Titian  is  so  per- 
fect that  you  take  it  for  granted.  The  vigorous  draw- 
ing of  the  "Peter  Martyr"  could  not  be  surpassed,  nor 
could  that  of  the  "Entombment,"  in  the  Louvre, 
and  many  others  of  his  canvases.  Titian  seems  to 
me  to  combine  more  perfections  in  his  pictures  than 
any  other  artist.  Even  the  bits  of  landscape  intro- 
duced as  background  and  the  superb  setting  of  the 
tragedy  of  the  "Peter  Martyr"  are  equalled  by  few 
landscape  painters. 

Giorgione  had  equal  color  with  Titian,  but  so  few 
pictures  attributed  to  him  are  authentic  that  it  is 
hard  to  form  an  estimate  of  his  standing.  Even  the 
beautiful  picture  of  "The  Concert,"  so  called,  in  the 
Pitti,  has  now  been  taken  away  from  him  and  given 
to  some  one  else. 

Paul  Veronese,  Bonifazio,  and  Paris  Bordone  are 
only  a  little  behind  the  other  three  already  mentioned, 
but,  as  Browning  writes,  "  the  little  more,  and  how 


138  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

much  It  is! "  How  true  this  is  of  many  things  besides 
pictures!  How  many  men  fall  just  short  of  the  high- 
est achievement!  "The  little  more,  and  how  much  it 
is!"  It  makes  often  just  the  difference  between  suc- 
cess and  failure.  It  is  the  distinction  between  genius 
and  talent. 

Of  course  there  are  many  other  artists  worthy  of 
mention,  and  much  more  could  be  said  if  we  were  writ- 
ing a  thesis  on  Italian  art.  There  are  two  things  worth 
noticing,  however.  One  is  the  thorough  training  all 
these  men  had  in  their  profession,  owing  to  the  ap- 
prentice system.  They  were  taught  their  art  from  the 
bottom  up,  even  to  grinding  their  masters'  colors,  and 
then  helping  them  in  painting  their  pictures,  especially 
in  the  draperies  or  backgrounds.  You  do  not  find  in 
any  of  these  men  any  show  of  technique  for  tech- 
nique's sake;  everything  is  carefully  designed,  care- 
fully drawn,  and  conscientiously  painted  without 
any  effort  to  show  off.  It  is  quite  natural  that  artists 
should  be  interested  in  the  way  a  picture  is  painted; 
but  I  think  we  of  late  years  lay  too  much  stress  on 
clever  technique.  Cleverness,  like  other  superficial 
qualities,  attracts  one  at  first,  but  one  soon  gets  tired 
of  it.  Pictures  that  depend  merely  on  clever  handling 
do  not  wear  well.  We  admire  them  immensely  at  first, 
but  soon  hardly  look  at  them.  Solid  qualities  always 
tell  in  the  long  run. 


ITALIAN  ART  139 

Another  thing  in  these  old  masters  is  their  abiUty 
to  fill  the  space  on  their  canvases  agreeably,  and  com- 
bine any  number  of  figures  in  their  compositions  with- 
out too  much  confusion  of  arms  or  legs.  Any  one  who 
has  tried,  knows  how  hard  it  is  to  dispose  of  many 
limbs  so  that  they  will  compose  well.  All  this  comes 
in  time  to  be  governed  in  a  sense  by  convention  as  in 
the  parallel  diagonal  lines  of  composition  that  the 
Venetians  were  so  fond  of.  There  has  been  a  great  hue 
and  cry  of  late  years  against  conventionality,  but 
people  do  not  realize  that  conventions  are  merely  the 
result  of  many  experiments  that  have  failed.  On  the 
whole  those  things  remain  that  turn  out  to  be  the 
most  satisfactory  in  the  long  run. 

It  is  well  to  try  experiments  within  limits;  but  such 
vagaries  as  Cubism  and  Vorticism  can  lead  to  nothing 
but  absurdities.  Nobody  can  claim  that  there  is  any 
beauty  in  them.  Beauty  should  be  the  first  law  of  art; 
anything  else  is  degrading  to  it.  Some  uninformed 
people  point  to  Japanese  art  as  a  departure  from  our 
conventions  of  art.  So  it  is  in  a  measure,  because  the 
Japanese  do  not  consider  perspective;  but  their  art 
is  governed  by  their  own  most  rigid  conventions,  as 
any  one  who  has  studied  the  matter  knows.  All  this 
craze  for  originality  leads  to  nothing  but  eccentricity. 
Men  are  praised  because  their  paintings  are  unlike 
anything  in  heaven  or  earth.  The  mere  fact  that  they 


I40  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

do  things  unlike  any  one  else  proclaims  them  as  gen- 
iuses, quite  regardless  of  whether  their  drawing  is  bad 
or  their  color  disagreeable. 

The  dealers  are  in  a  great  measure  responsible  for 
this;  they  buy  up  canvases  by  unknown  artists,  at 
small  prices,  and  then,  by  proclaiming  that  the  art- 
ist who  cannot  draw  or  does  not  know  how  to  paint 
is  a  great  genius,  sell  the  pictures  at  absurd  prices  to 
the  confiding  public.  Taste  in  pictures  changes  from 
year  to  year,  and  by  clever  manipulation  the  dealers 
are  able  to  create  a  taste,  and  thereby  manufacture  a 
market.  Also  if  they  are  loaded  up  with  a  number  of 
paintings  by  a  particular  artist,  they  see  to  it  that  the 
prices  of  that  artist  are  kept  up  at  the  auction  sales. 

All  this  is  very  disgusting  to  a  lover  of  art;  the  only 
consolation  being  that  in  the  long  run  things  adjust 
themselves,  and  bad  art  eventually  gets  put  away  in 
the  attic  or  cellar,  and  the  good  artist  comes  into  his 
own — but  alas!  only  too  often  when  not  in  this  world 
and  unable  to  profit  by  his  final  justification. 

All  these  reflections  were  not,  of  course,  made  at 
that  time  of  the  past  that  I  have  been  dealing  with. 
I  was  then  too  young  and  my  study  of  art  too  recent 
for  me  to  have  formed  any  definite  conclusions  from 
what  I  had  seen  in  Italy;  but  it  was  a  good  foundation 
to  build  upon,  and  I  have  always  contended  that  the 
study  of  the  old  masters  is  essential  if  an  artist  is  to 


ITALIAN  ART  141 

amount  to  anything.  It  is  the  fashion  nowadays  to 
despise  the  old  masters;  but  just  as  in  literature  it  is 
essential  to  have  read  the  classics,  so  in  art  we  must 
study  those  who  have  gone  before,  if  we  are  to  learn 
the  great  principles  of  art,  and  not  flounder  around  in  a 
sea  of  eccentricities. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
A  WALKING  TOUR  IN  THE  ALPS 

After  a  delightful  stay  of  some  time  at  Cadenabbia, 
my  uncle  and  I  departed  for  Geneva  by  way  of  Milan, 
Turin,  and  the  Mont  Cenis.  The  Mont  Cenis  Tunnel 
had  not  then  been  completed,  and  we  were  taken 
over  the  mountain  on  some  kind  of  improvised  cog 
railroad,  the  first  of  its  kind,  I  believe,  to  be  con- 
structed. 

I  had  agreed  to  meet  a  friend  of  my  own  age  at 
Geneva  on  July  4th  for  a  walking  and  climbing  tour 
in  Switzerland.  This  friend,  Mr.  Frederic  Crownln- 
shield,  had  been  a  great  athlete  at  Harvard  and  the 
stroke  of  the  "varsity"  crew;  afterward  he  became  an 
artist  like  myself,  and  it  is  possible  that  my  example 
may  have  influenced  him.  At  that  time,  however,  I 
do  not  think  he  had  any  idea  of  such  a  thing. 

We  started  our  tour  by  going  part-way  to  Cham- 
onix  by  diligence  and  then  walking  the  last  part  when 
it  became  interesting.  I  remember  how  we  rejoiced, 
as  we  walked  up  through  the  pine  woods,  at  the  deli- 
cious scent  of  the  pines,  which  reminded  us  of  home, 
the  freshness  of  the  mountain  air,  and  the  cool  rush- 
ing river  tumbling  down  by  the  side  of  the  road;  then 


FREDERIC  CROWNINSHIELD  AND  E.  W.  L.  ON  WALKING-TRIP 


A  WALKING  TOUR  IN  THE  ALPS     143 

that  first  glimpse  of  snowclad  mountain-tops  seen 
through  the  trees,  and  finally  that  wonderful  valley 
of  Chamonix  surrounded  with  towering  peaks,  and 
above  all  the  great  mass  of  Mont  Blanc. 

I  will  not  weary  the  reader  with  descriptions  of  all 
that  we  did  and  saw.  To  begin  with,  we  had  to  get 
into  training  after  our  long  stay  in  cities,  so  we  did 
the  usual  excursions  to  limber  up  our  muscles.  Our 
most  ambitious  excursion  was  to  the  "Jardin"  far 
up  on  the  Mer-de-Glace  —  a  fatiguing,  but  not  dan- 
gerous trip.  It  was  our  first  experience  of  glacier- 
climbing,  and  most  interesting,  and  the  crossing  of 
crevasses  and  climbing  among  seracs  was  sometimes 
exciting.  We  had  the  ambition,  when  we  got  into  con- 
dition, of  making  the  ascent  of  Mont  Blanc,  but  found 
the  expense  of  guides  and  porters  beyond  our  slender 
means,  and  I  think  it  as  well  we  did  not  attempt  it, 
with  our  slight  experience. 

The  valley  of  Chamonix  is,  I  think,  rather  disap- 
pointing from  a  pictorial  point  of  view.  It  is  too  nar- 
row and  the  sides  too  steep  to  get  a  good  view  of  the 
mountains  on  either  side.  The  top  of  Mont  Blanc  can 
scarcely  be  seen  or  its  height  judged.  Not  till  you 
view  it  from  the  opposite  side  of  the  valley,  from  the 
Brevant,  does  its  true  majesty  appear.  That  was  our 
first  stiff  climb,  and  we  were  rather  proud  of  it.  I 
have  been  there  since  and  do  not  think  now  that  it 


144  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

was  much  to  be  proud  of;  but  we  were  young  and  It 
was  our  first  real  mountain. 

We  had  sent  our  heavy  luggage  from  Geneva  to 
Vevey,  and  I  carried  only  a  satchel  over  my  shoulder, 
containing  toilet  articles,  a  pair  of  slippers,  a  change 
of  underclothes,  and  extra  socks;  no  overcoat  or 
umbrella,  only  an  alpenstock.  Mr.  Crowninshield 
had  a  knapsack  with  much  the  same  contents.  So 
equipped,  we  went  one  afternoon  from  Chamonix 
to  Armentieres  to  pass  the  night,  and  the  next  day 
walked  to  Martigny  by  way  of  the  Tete-Noire,  arriv- 
ing in  time  for  lunch. 

Mr.  Crowninshield,  who  was  always  for  pushing 
on,  was  not  contented  with  this,  but  insisted  on  get- 
ting for  the  night  to  Chambery,  up  a  little  valley  off 
the  Rhone  valley  at  the  foot  of  the  Dent  du  Midi, 
which  he  had  designs  upon  for  the  following  morning. 
It  was  rather  too  long  a  trip,  and  we  reached  Cham- 
bery quite  exhausted.  However,  after  a  night's  rest, 
we  were  off  for  the  mountain  at  an  early  hour,  none 
the  worse.  It  Is  rather  a  stiff  climb,  and  we  ran  Into 
a  snowstorm  at  the  top,  so  we  got  no  view,  but  we 
did  it  In  record  time,  which  seemed  the  main  thing 
with  my  friend.  Unfortunately,  Mr.  C.  sprained  his 
ankle  coming  down,  so  we  had  to  go  to  Vevey,  where 
his  mother  and  other  friends  were,  till  he  got  well 
enough  to  start  off  again.  It  was  not  a  bad  sprain,  so 


A  WALKING  TOUR  IN  THE  ALPS     14S 

in  a  week  we  took  a  carriage  with  my  uncle,  who  had 
joined  us  again,  and  drove  up  the  Rhone  valley  to 
Visp.  It  was  a  very  hot  and  dusty  drive  and  unin- 
teresting, and  we  did  well  not  to  walk  it. 

From  Visp  by  starting  early  we  were  able  to  walk 
up  to  Zermatt  in  one  day.  There  was  no  railroad  then, 
and  only  a  bridle-path.  Most  people  went  on  mules, 
but  it  was  a  rather  precarious  path  in  those  days  and 
several  accidents  occurred.  I  shall  never  forget  that 
first  view  of  the  Matterhom,  peeping  over  the  shoul- 
der of  the  mountain ;  how  it  cheered  our  flagging  spir- 
its and  gave  new  vigor  to  our  tired  limbs.  There  is  no 
mountain  that  affects  the  imagination  like  the  Mat- 
terhorn;  it  is  so  grand  standing  up  alone  to  defy  the 
elements,  and  so  many  lives  have  been  lost  in  scaling 
its  frowning  precipices.  Only  the  year  before,  in  1865, 
I  think,  had  it  first  been  conquered  by  Whymper  and 
his  party,  and  had  taken  its  revenge  in  the  loss  on  the 
way  down  of  most  of  them.  It  has  now  been  made 
much  easier  of  ascent  by  ropes  and  irons  in  places; 
but  still  it  exacts  its  toll  of  lives  occasionally.  We 
looked  at  it  longingly,  but  had  no  notion  of  attempt- 
ing so  dangerous  an  experiment.  Indeed,  I  think  just 
then  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  get  guides  who 
would  go,  as  after  the  terrible  accident  of  the  year 
before  they  seemed  to  have  a  superstitious  dread 
of  it. 


146  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

From  Zermatt  we  climbed  up  to  the  RifFel  Inn,  in- 
tending to  stay  there  several  days  and  make  excur- 
sions from  there,  having  secured  two  reliable  guides 
for  that  purpose.  We  did  not  count  going  up  to  the 
Corner  Grat  as  any  sort  of  excursion,  but  enjoyed  that 
wonderful  view  all  the  same.  You  seem  there  to  be 
right  in  the  heart  of  the  mountains,  and  it  would  be 
hard  to  find  any  view  in  Switzerland  to  equal  it  that 
can  be  reached  so  easily. 

Our  first  real  excursion  was  to  the  Cima  di  Jazzi, 
a  rather  long  walk  over  the  Corner  Clacier  to  a  moun- 
tain where  you  can  look  down  into  Italy,  thousands 
of  feet  below,  and  where  if  you  are  not  careful  you 
might  fall  equally  far,  if  you  went  too  near  the  edge, 
where  the  snow  forms  a  cornice  at  the  top  of  the 
precipice  on  the  Italian  side.  This  was  a  sort  of 
breather. 

The  next  morning  we  started  before  sunrise  to  make 
the  ascent  of  Monte  Rosa.  I  confess  to  disliking  very 
much  to  be  called  in  the  dark  at  three  in  the  morning, 
when  your  courage  is  at  the  lowest,  and  you  say  to 
yourself  what  a  fool  you  are  to  have  agreed  to  any  such 
idiotic  performance.  You  shiver  in  your  thin  clothes 
in  the  cold  dining-room,  where  you  are  served  with 
a  hunk  of  tough  bread  and  bad  coffee  by  candlelight, 
and  you  don't  care  whether  school  keeps  or  not.  You 
stumble  up  the  first  slopes,  by  the  uncertain  light  of 


A  WALKING  TOUR  IN  THE  ALPS     147 

a  lantern  held  by  the  guide,  who  seems  to  be  in  an 
unnecessary  hurry.  You  feel  so  tired,  and  your  feet  so 
heavy  from  the  climb  of  the  day  before,  that  it  Is 
folly  to  think  you  can  ever  hold  out  to  get  up  any  sort 
of  a  mountain,  much  less  one  of  fifteen  thousand  feet 
or  more.  Then  suddenly  —  "Oh,  grand  and  glorious 
feeling" —  you  see  the  guide  put  down  the  lantern,  and 
you  see  the  daylight  gradually  spread,  and  one  peak 
after  another  touched  with  rose;  and  then  over  the 
brow  of  the  rise  ahead  suddenly  pops  the  sun,  and  all 
your  woes  are  forgotten,  your  legs  seem  to  regain 
strength,  and  you  feel  like  shouting  aloud  in  your  joy, 
only  you  want  all  your  breath  to  keep  up  with  the 
guide  who  is  stalking  ahead. 

The  reason  for  starting  so  early  is  to  get  on  the  snow 
or  the  glacier  before  the  rays  of  the  sun  begin  to  melt 
it.  The  sun  is  surprisingly  hot  in  the  rarefied  atmos- 
phere of  those  heights,  and  it  is  necessary  to  wear 
goggles  to  protect  the  eyes  from  the  glare  of  the  snow, 
w'hich,  as  you  climb,  is  brought  nearer  to  the  eyes 
than  in  ordinary  winter  walks  over  snowfields.  On 
this  particular  morning  we  had  quite  a  climb  up  to 
the  shoulder  overlooking  the  Corner  Glacier  and  then 
down  to  the  glacier  itself;  so  far  it  was  the  same  route 
we  had  followed  in  going  to  the  Cima  di  Jazzi.  We 
now  were  roped  before  crossing  the  glacier,  which, 
though  quite  level  and  easy  to  travel,  has  treacherous 


148  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

crevasses  filled  with  snow,  where  by  an  incautious 
step  one  might  fall  through.  Climbers  are  roped  so 
that  if  one  or  two  should  fall  into  a  crevasse,  the  others 
can  pull  them  out.  First  goes  the  principal  guide, 
who  shows  the  way  and  cuts  steps  in  the  steep  slopes 
or  pinnacles  of  ice  on  the  glaciers;  these  steps  are  not 
very  deep,  just  enough  to  give  you  toe-hold,  as  step- 
cutting  is  very  fatiguing  work;  then  at  the  distance  of 
about  fifteen  feet  comes  the  second  man,  attached  to 
the  first  by  the  rope  and  holding  it  by  his  left  hand,  so 
as  to  be  ready  to  give  a  pull  if  necessary;  then  at  the 
same  distance  behind  comes  usually  the  second  guide; 
and  so  on  according  to  the  size  of  the  party.  It  will  be 
seen  by  this  that  if  any  one  falls,  the  others  are  in- 
stantly ready  to  pull  him  up.  It  is  obvious  that  it  is 
very  dangerous  for  a  party  of  less  than  three  to  climb 
because  one  man  is  usually  not  strong  enough  un- 
aided to  pull  another  out  of  a  crevasse. 

After  crossing  the  glacier,  we  stopped  for  a  little  at 
the  rocks  at  the  foot  of  Monte  Rosa  for  some  re- 
freshment, and  then  began  the  toilsome  ascent  over 
snowfields  toward  the  summit.  It  was  a  beautiful 
clear  morning  and  our  spirits  were  high,  but  already, 
to  one  with  an  observant  eye,  could  be  seen  little 
feathers  of  cloud  collecting  on  the  two  peaks  of  Monte 
Rosa  and  on  the  summit  of  the  Lyskamm.  Probably 
the  guides  knew  from  these  signs  that  a  south  wind 


A  WALKING  TOUR  IN  THE  ALPS     149 

was  blowing  up  there,  and  that  we  should  never  reach 
the  top  of  the  mountain,  but  they  did  not  wish  to 
lose  their  fee  for  making  the  ascent,  which  they  could 
hardly  claim  if  we  turned  back  thus  early. 

More  and  more  the  clouds  gathered,  and  when  we 
were  still  an  hour  from  the  summit  it  became  evident 
that  it  was  useless  to  go  on,  as  it  was  beginning  to 
snow  and  the  view  was  obscured,  so  reluctantly  we 
turned  back  and  raced  for  our  lives  down  the  moun- 
tain, as  the  snow  soon  became  so  thick  that  we  could 
see  only  a  few  yards  ahead,  and  without  a  clever  guide 
we  should  have  easily  lost  our  way,  and  probably 
have  perished  as  so  many  others  have  done  in  similar 
circumstances.  The  snow  had  obliterated  our  tracks 
coming  up,  and  we  plunged  in  places  nearly  up  to  our 
waists  in  the  softened  snow.  Still  we  raced  on;  at  one 
point  Mr.  Crowninshield  disappeared  up  to  his  arm- 
pits in  a  crevasse,  but  was  jerked  out,  as  you  would 
jerk  a  fish  from  the  water,  with  hardly  a  pause.  At 
last  we  got  below  the  storm  and  safely  back  to  the 
hotel,  where  we  went  to  bed  while  our  clothes  were 
being  dried. 

The  next  morning  it  was  very  cold  and  the  ground 
around  the  hotel  was  covered  with  snow,  so  we  de- 
cided to  descend  to  Zermatt  and,  as  the  weather  seemed 
so  bad,  to  go  the  next  day  down  the  valley  to  Visp. 
That  night,  however,  it  cleared  off,  and  we  were 


I50  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

waked  at  an  early  hour  by  the  guide,  who  said  it  would 
be  a  good  day  to  ascend  the  Breithorn,  which  we  had 
hoped  to  do,  but  had  given  up.  People  going  up  the 
Breithorn  usually  sleep  at  the  Theodule  hut,  to  save 
the  long  climb  up  from  Zermatt;  but  as  we  had  not 
done  so,  we  had  to  take  that  tedious  climb  first,  and 
were  glad  when  we  reached  the  hut  to  rest  a  moment, 
and  refresh  ourselves  with  some  mulled  wine  that  the 
woman  there  made  for  us.  Some  Germans  had  slept 
at  the  hut,  and  on  that  account  we  were  glad  we  had 
not,  as  it  might  have  been  crowded  and  unpleasant. 

The  Germans  had  already  started  when  we  got 
there,  but  were  going  slowly  and  we  passed  them  be- 
fore long,  as  my  companion  was  always  anxious  to  see 
how  quickly  we  could  do  a  thing  and  was  bent  on 
making  a  record  every  time;  which  seemed  to  me  un- 
necessary, but  I  was  not  to  be  outdone. 

We  got  to  the  top  long  before  the  Germans  and  sat 
on  the  rounded  summit  enjoying  that  wonderful  view. 
The  day  was  perfect  and  very  clear  after  the  storm, 
and  we  were  surrounded  by  those  towering  peaks 
clothed  in  fresh-fallen  snow,  dazzling  in  its  bright- 
ness —  Monte  Rosa,  the  Lyskamm,  the  Moins,  and 
close  at  hand  the  Matterhorn  raising  its  great  bulk 
into  the  blue  heavens.  A  little  farther  oif  were  the 
Dent  Blanche,  the  beautiful  Weisshom,  and  other 
peaks,  and  far  down  at  the  end  of  the  valley  rose  the 


A  WALKING  TOUR  IN  THE  ALPS     151 

Bernese  Oberland,  with  the  Jungfrau  Hfting  Itself 
above  the  rest.  Then  far  to  the  south  we  could  just 
see  Mont  Blanc  slightly  yellow  in  the  haze.  We  sat 
there  a  long  time  entranced;  till  the  Germans'  arrival 
drove  us  away.  Two  very  happy  but  tired  young  men 
reached  Zermatt  again  in  the  afternoon  and  felt  they 
had  made  up  for  the  disappointment  of  Monte  Rosa. 

The  next  day  we  went  down  the  valley  to  Visp,  and 
on  following  days  to  the  Rhone  Glacier,  doing  the 
Eggeshorn  on  the  way.  My  father  has  described  the 
Rhone  Glacier  as  "a  gauntlet  of  ice,  which  centuries 
ago.  Winter,  the  King  of  these  mountains,  threw  down 
In  defiance  to  the  Sun."  In  those  days  it  did  resem- 
ble a  giant's  glove,  lying  with  the  palm  down,  and 
reaching  almost  down  to  where  the  hotel  stood.  The 
cold  breath  of  the  giant  seemed  to  fill  the  valley  and 
freeze  one's  bones.  It  was  about  the  coldest  place  in 
Switzerland.  Now  the  giant  hand  has  been  with- 
drawn and  gradually  the  sun,  which  took  up  the  chal- 
lenge, has  conquered ;  and  like  other  glaciers  in  Swit- 
zerland it  has  shrunk  to  half  its  size,  and  has  become 
a  withered  hand  impotent  to  do  evil. 

The  next  morning  bright  and  early  we  scaled  the 
heights  to  the  Grimsel  Pass,  and,  passing  the  Hospice, 
above  its  gloomy  lake,  wended  our  way  down  the 
beautiful  Hash  Thai,  stopping  for  lunch  at  the  Han- 
degg  Falls,  where  two  falls  join,  reminding  one  some- 


152  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

what  of  when  French  waiters  pour  your  cafe-au-lait 
from  two  pots  at  once,  making  a  delicious  foam  in 
your  cup.  We  reached  Meiringen  late  in  the  after- 
noon, making  a  very  long  day,  but  when  you  are  young 
you  recuperate  quickly,  and  by  the  next  morning  we 
started  quite  fresh  for  Interlaken  over  the  Great 
Scheidegg,  by  way  of  Grindelwald.  It  is  a  good  thirty 
miles,  with  a  stiff  climb  up  to  the  Scheidegg,  but  we 
were  in  splendid  condition  by  that  time  and  came 
into  Interlaken  at  a  rattling  pace.  We  were  two  rather 
disreputable-looking  youngsters  and  hardly  thought 
the  lordly  porter  at  the  Victoria  would  admit  us, 
but  they  are  used  to  that  sort  of  thing  in  Switzerland 
and  very  grateful  did  we  find  a  good  bed  and  bath 
after  our  long  tramp. 

The  next  day  we  joined  Mr.  Crowninshield's  mother 
at  a  pension  near  by,  where  my  uncle  also  came. 

My  uncle  and  I  took  much  pleasure  in  hunting  up 
the  places  in  Interlaken  mentioned  in  "Hyperion": 
the  Hotel  des  Alpes  where  the  Ashburtons  were 
stopping,  the  cloister  where  Paul  Flemming  had  his 
quarters,  and  the  ruined  castle  of  Unspunnen  where 
heunsuccessfullyplied  his  suit  to  Mary  Ashburton.  As  a 

is  well  known,the  heroine  of  "Hyperion,"  the  romance 
written  by  my  father  before  his  second  marriage,  was 
supposed  to  be  his  future  wife,  and  he  may  have  writ- 
ten the  book  hoping  thereby  to  forward  his  courtship. 


I 


A  WALKING  TOUR  IN  THE  ALPS     153 

The  beauty  of  Switzerland  is  in  its  lovely  lakes  and 
charming  valleys,  but  above  all,  in  the  contrast  be- 
tween the  luxuriousness  of  its  vegetation  and  the 
wonderful  snow  mountains  lifting  their  white  purity 
into  the  blue  sky.  The  Yosemite  is  grander  and  its 
vegetation  wilder  than  the  valley  of  Lauterbrunnen; 
but  it  does  not  have  the  beautiful  Jungf  rau,  the  Monch, 
and  the  Eiger  rising  up  above  its  towering  cliffs ;  if  it 
had  it  would  be  the  most  wonderful  place  in  the  world. 

It  is  always  the  snow  mountains  of  Switzerland  that 
give  the  added  touch  to  all  its  loveliness,  and  stim- 
ulate the  imagination.  As  you  approach  by  way  of 
Berne,  there  in  the  distance  is  that  mysterious  line 
of  silver  crests,  and  you  instantly  feel  that  you  must 
get  nearer  to  them.  At  Thun,  across  the  beautiful 
lake  with  its  translucent  green  water,  they  rise  still 
nearer;  and  at  Interlaken  it  seems  as  if  the  mountains 
had  been  kept  by  some  gigantic  hand  to  form  a  frame- 
work for  the  Jungfrau,  so  perfectly  is  it  placed  in  the 
picture.  Interlaken,  with  its  surrounding  lakes,  val- 
leys, and  snow  mountains,  is  certainly  the  beauty 
spot  of  Switzerland. 

We  lingered  there  several  weeks,  staying  at  Miirren 
above  Lauterbrunnen  a  long  time.  There  it  seems  as 
if  you  could  almost  touch  the  opposite  mountams 
across  the  narrow  valley.  There  is  no  place  where  the 
afterglow  on  those  snowclad  heights  can  be  seen  to 


154  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

better  advantage:  that  wonderful  pink  glow  that 
comes  after  the  sun  has  set,  and  that  gradually  fades 
till  a  grey  hue,  as  of  death,  overspreads  their  glowing 
foreheads  and  leaves  them  cold  and  lifeless. 

We  climbed  the  Schilthom,  Mr.  Crowninshield  and 
I ;  we  crossed  the  Wengemalp ;  we  went  up  the  Faul- 
hom,  but  got  no  view;  we  visited  glaciers;  in  short, 
we  did  almost  all  the  things  we  ought  to  do,  and,  being 
young,  we  had  a  glorious  time.  We  wound  up  by 
walking  to  Lucerne,  where  we  parted.  So  came  to  an 
end  our  walking  tour. 

My  uncle  and  I  took  carriage  up  to  Andermatt  and 
then,  by  the  Vorder  Rhein  and  the  Spliigen,  descended 
into  Italy  again,  only  to  leave  it  by  Stelvio  Pass ;  or 
rather  we  tried  to  cross  the  pass,  but  at  the  top  we 
found  Italian  and  Austrian  sentinels  pacing  to  and  fro 
within  a  few  feet  of  each  other.  The  war  was  over; 
but  the  peace  had  not  yet  been  signed,  so  they  would 
not  let  us  pass.  A  very  polite  Italian  officer  told  us, 
if  we  would  go  back  a  little  way,  there  was  a  path 
leading  into  a  comer  of  Switzerland  and  from  there 
we  could  cross  into  the  Tyrol  without  any  trouble. 
This  seemed  an  ingenious  way  of  whipping  the  devil 
around  the  stump,  so  with  the  help  of  a  man  to  carry 
our  luggage,  we  got  into  Austria  in  that  way. 

We  arrived  at  \Ieran  without  further  difficulty  and 
found  the  grape  cure  in  full  swing.  It  was  amusing  to 


A  WALKING  TOUR  IN  THE  ALPS     155 

see  the  amount  of  grapes  those  fat  Germans  would 
tuck  away.  What  the  cure  is  for,  I  have  forgotten,  or 
if  it  still  goes  on  there. 

From  ]Meran  we  drove  by  way  of  Landeck  to  Inns- 
bruck and  Munich  and  so  to  Salzburg  and  the  Salz- 
kammergut  and  then  to  Vienna. 

The  war  that  was  won  by  Germany  in  one  battle 
was  now  over  and  peace  signed,  and  Vienna  was  as 
gay  and  apparently  as  unconcerned  as  if  she  had  not 
been  terribly  humiliated.  Italy,  which  had  never  been 
able  to  stand  up  against  the  Austrians  unassisted, 
had  been  handed  Venezia  by  Germany  for  her  rather 
inglorious  participation  in  the  war. 

I  was  somewhat  disappointed  in  the  galleries  in 
Vienna;  there  were  few  pictures  of  the  first  class,  it 
seemed  to  me. 

We  then  went  to  Prague,  that  picturesque  city  with 
its  beautiful  bridge,  and  so  on  to  Dresden,  where  we 
revelled  in  that  wonderful  gallery,  certainly  one  of  the 
finest  in  Europe. 

The  Sistine  Madonna  in  its  room  to  itself  cannot 
but  impress  one  profoundly.  As  a  rule  I  do  not  care 
much  for  Raphael's  Madonnas;  they  seem  to  me  too 
sweet  and  sentimental;  but  the  Sistine  Madonna  is 
different;  there  is  a  mysterious  look  in  her  eyes  as  if 
she  were  looking  into  the  future  and  saw  what  was 
before  the  rather  farouche  infant  in  her  arms. 


156  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

While  at  Dresden  we  saw  one  day  a  wonderful  sight; 
that  was  the  Grenadiers  of  the  German  Guard,  in 
their  silver  helmets  with  the  golden  eagle  on  top  and 
their  shining  breastplates,  crossing  the  bridge  on  their 
return  from  the  war.  Some  of  their  breastplates  bore 
the  marks  of  conflict  and  they  certainly  made  a 
magnificent  picture. 

We  then  went  to  Holland  to  study  the  Dutch 
school,  and  the  wonderful  Rembrandts  confirmed  the 
admiration  for  that  painter  which  I  had  formed  in 
Paris. 

The  smaller  Dutch  masters  of  the  genre  school 
never  interested  me  very  much,  with  the  exception  of 
Vermeer,  and  the  much-vaunted  Paul  Potter's  bull 
not  at  all.  It  seems  to  me  a  sign  of  a  small  mind,  to 
find  delight  in  the  depicting  of  flies  on  a  cow's  back. 

My  uncle  was  now  going  back  to  America,  and  I 
had  to  make  up  my  mind  whether  I  should  accom- 
pany him.  It  had  been  my  intention  to  stay  abroad 
another  year  or  perhaps  two,  either  in  Rome  or  in 
Paris,  to  continue  my  studies,  as  I  felt  that  I  needed 
a  great  deal  more  work  in  the  technique  of  my  profes- 
sion and  that  I  had  hardly  begun  to  paint  at  all.  It 
was  a  great  mistake  on  my  part  that  I  did  not  do  so, 
but  I  was  rather  homesick  at  the  idea  of  being  de- 
serted by  my  travelling  companion.  My  father  was 
writing  for  me  to  come  home,  and  most  potent  of  all 


A  WALKING  TOUR  IN  THE  ALPS     157 

was  the  desire  to  see  again  a  certain  person  of  the 
opposite  sex.  So,  very  foolishly,  I  gave  way  to  my 
weakness,  and  after  a  short  stay  in  Paris  we  sailed 
from  Brest  in  a  French  steamer  for  home  some  time 
in  October.  So  ended,  much  too  soon,  my  study  of 
art  abroad. 

Judge  not  thy  friend,  until  thou  standest  in  his  place." 


CHAPTER  IX 

LIFE  AT  HOME  AND  ABROAD 

Perhaps  it  was  fitting  that  I  returned  in  time  for  my 
twenty-first  birthday,  but  as  I  was  not  a  prodigal,  no 
fatted  calf  was  slaughtered  for  my  benefit.  I  don't 
care  much  for  veal  anyway. 

There  are  two  kinds  of  people  in  this  world,  those 
that  are  naturally  saving  and  those  that  are  prodigal. 
The  latter  have  much  the  best  of  it,  for  not  only  do 
they  enjoy  the  things  they  have  spent  their  money  for, 
but  they  usually  end  by  spending  the  other  fellow's 
money  also. 

It  used  to  be  considered  a  virtue  to  work  hard  and 
save  money  for  one's  children  so  that  they  might  be 
better  off  if  possible.  Now  to  exercise  thrift  and  save 
money  is  held  to  be  a  crime,  for  as  soon  as  you  have 
money  in  the  bank  you  become  that  hated  thing,  a 
capitalist,  with  every  man's  hand  against  you.  They 
have  reversed  the  Biblical  saying,  "He  that  hath,  to 
him  shall  be  given,"  and  now  say  that  what  little  he 
hath  shall  be  taken  away  from  him.  Instead  of  being 
allowed  to  leave  his  hard-earned  savings  to  his  wife 
and  children,  the  State  steps  in  and  claims  a  generous 
share,  on  the  ground  apparently  that  those  who  are 


LIFE  AT  HOME  AND  ABROAD        159 

incompetent  or  too  lazy  to  work  should  be  supported 
by  the  Industrious. 

When  our  forefathers  came  to  this  country,  they 
found  it  a  wilderness ;  by  the  sweat  of  their  brows,  and 
at  the  risk  of  their  lives  in  many  cases,  they  reclaimed 
the  land,  and  it  is  right  that  their  descendants  should 
enjoy  the  fruits  thereof.  Now  come  a  horde  of  for- 
eigners who  have  not  been  able  to  make  a  living  in 
their  own  country,  and  say  calmly  that  the  land  be- 
longs to  them  equally  and  it  should  be  divided  up 
amongst  them.  Was  ever  anything  so  preposterous? 

There  is  some  excuse  abroad,  where  land  has  been 
monopolized  by  the  few,  and  given  in  olden  times  in 
large  tracts  to  some  favorite  of  a  king,  or  divided  up 
by  a  conquerer  among  his  followers;  but  in  this  coun- 
try, where  every  man  has  worked  for  what  he  owns,  or 
at  least  his  ancestors  have,  the  socialists,  so  it  seems 
to  me,  have  not  a  leg  to  stand  on.  There  should  be  no 
ground  for  socialism  in  this  country.  Almost  every 
millionaire  that  you  can  think  of  began  as  a  poor  boy. 
If  every  lazy  or  incompetent  man  had  had  their  brains, 
he  might  have  done  the  same.  In  a  country  where  a 
boot-black  or  a  newsboy  may  become  a  multimil- 
lionaire, there  is  no  excuse  to  talk  about  the  oppres- 
sion of  labor  by  capital. 

Our  legislators  are  so  weak,  and  so  anxious  for 
votes,  that  they  truckle  to  the  lowest  elements.  All 


i6o  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

these  inheritance  and  income  taxes  are  just  so  much 
discouragement  to  thrift.  Why  should  any  one  save, 
if  it  is  to  be  taken  away  from  him?  Hence  this  riot  of 
extravagance. 

During  the  Civil  War  our  merchant  marine  was 
destroyed,  with  the  gleeful  assistance  of  England.  It 
is  true  she  had  to  pay  a  matter  of  fifteen  millions  for 
the  privilege;  but  what  was  that,  in  spite  of  the  row 
they  made  about  it,  in  comparison  to  getting  rid  of 
a  dangerous  rival  f  After  the  war  capital  was  earning 
so  much  in  other  enterprises  that  it  did  not  pay  to 
put  it  into  reviving  shipping,  unless  with  a  liberal  sub- 
sidy from  the  Government;  this  the  legislators  from 
the  South  and  West  refused  to  give.  The  South  had 
been  built  up  after  the  war  with  Eastern  capital,  and 
although  the  West  had  been  developed  by  subsidies  in 
the  form  of  land  grants  to  the  railroads,  which  had 
been  built  with  Eastern  money,  the  Congressmen  from 
these  regions  held  up  their  hands  in  horror  at  the 
word  subsidy  for  the  Eastern  shipping  interests.  The 
short-sightedness  of  this  policy  became  apparent  when 
the  World  War  came  and  we  had  no  ships.  The 
farmers  and  planters  were  perfectly  indifferent  as  to 
who  carried  their  produce  abroad  as  long  as  it  was 
done  cheaply;  but  when  the  war  came,  they  set  up 
a  howl  because,  owing  to  their  own  folly,  there  were 
no  ships  to  carry  their  goods. 


LIFE  AT  HOME  AND  ABROAD       i6i 

For  some  reason  I  have  been  unable  to  fathom, 
legislators  have  a  peculiar  weakness  for  farmers.  Al- 
though the  unparalleled  prosperity  of  the  West  re- 
sulted from  the  capital  lent  by  the  East  or  from  its 
development,  in  the  way  of  railroads  and  liberal  loans, 
the  Western  farmers  have  had  a  constant  desire  to  re- 
pudiate these  debts.  This  manifested  itself  first  in 
the  greenback  craze,  then  in  the  silver  craze  under  the 
leadership  of  Bryan,  whereby  they  hoped  to  have  to 
pay  only  forty  cents  on  the  dollar,  but  afterwards  in 
their  unrelenting  attacks  on  the  railroads  to  which 
they  really  owed  their  existence.  For  years  before 
the  World  War  we  have  seen  Congress  and  State 
legislators  passing  laws  starving  the  railroads.  The 
farmers  and  shippers  seem  to  think  that  their  produce 
ought  to  be  carried  for  nothing,  forgetting  that  cap- 
ital will  not  be  invested  without  some  return.  All 
this  seems  self-evident,  but  books  like  the  "Octopus" 
helped  to  inflame  their  minds,  and  an  orgy  of  muck- 
raking was  carried  on  in  the  press  and  magazines, 
the  result  being  that  when  we  needed  transportation 
the  most,  when  the  war  came,  we  found  many  of 
the  railroads  in  receivers'  hands,  and  the  others 
handicapped  by  poor  equipment,  owing  to  want  of 
funds.  The  Government  then  took  over  the  rail- 
roads, as  we  know,  and  proceeded  to  do  exactly 
what  it  had  forbidden  them  to  do  before,  that  is, 


1 62  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

to  consolidate  competing  lines.  The  New  York,  New 
Haven  &  Hartford  had  been  hounded  to  death  be- 
cause its  directors  had  wished  to  bring  all  New  Eng- 
land into  one  system,  and  now  the  Government 
found  they  had  to  do  just  that  one  thing.  What 
fools  we  mortals  be! 

All  this  seems  to  have  little  connection  with  what  I 
have  been  writing  about;  but  in  the  autumn  of  1866 
I  came  of  age  and  received  my  portion  of  my  mother's 
fortune,  and  therefore  became  a  capitalist  in  a  small 
way.  The  money  that  came  to  my  mother  had  been 
earned  by  hard  work  by  my  grandfather,  who  came 
to  Boston  a  poor  boy,  and  it  seems  to  me  only  just 
that  it  should  be  passed  on  to  his  descendants. 

A  capitalist  is  not  a  wicked  person;  he  does  not  lock 
up  his  gains,  but,  like  a  bank,  he  lends  it  to  different 
enterprises  to  pay  wages  of  workers,  or  to  buy  the 
things  that  others  make,  thereby  supporting  people 
who  otherwise  would  starve  for  want  of  a  market. 
When  will  the  laboring  people  learn  that  they  cannot 
get  on  without  capital  f  Some  employers  undoubtedly 
do  treat  their  workers  unjustly,  also  some  workers 
equally  make  unjust  demands,  which  the  business 
cannot  grant  and  pay  any  return.  The  trouble  is  that 
labor,  while  demanding  its  share  of  the  profits,  is  not 
willing  to  bear  its  share  of  the  losses.  Instead  of  put- 
ting its  shoulder  to  the  wheel  and  helping,  labor  is  too 


LIFE  AT  HOME  AND  ABROAD       163 

apt  to  put  a  drag  on,  by  demanding  shorter  hours  and 
less  production,  and  at  the  same  time  more  pay.  How 
can  any  business  be  carried  on  under  those  circum- 
stances? It  seems  impossible  to  get  it  into  the  heads 
of  the  workers  that  the  capital  that  makes  their  work 
possible  cannot  be  had  without  some  return  to  the 
capitalist. 

Enough  of  this  —  perhaps  too  much !  In  the  autumn 
of  1866, 1  took  a  studio  in  the  Studio  Building  on  Tre- 
mont  Street.  There  I  had  as  neighbors  Appleton 
Brown,  the  charming  landscape  painter,  a  pupil  of 
Lambinet;  Porter,  the  portrait-painter;  Innes,  and 
others.  Innes,  whose  pictures  now  bring  such  huge 
prices,  could  hardly  sell  his  productions,  but  a  man 
named  Williams,  who  brought  home  some  quite  un- 
important figure  subjects  from  Rome,  sold  his  like 
hot  cakes;  such  is  the  want  of  knowledge  or  taste  on 
the  part  of  the  public. 

It  will  be  noticed  that  I  had  had  very  little  real  In- 
struction In  drawing,  and  none  at  all  in  painting.  I 
therefore  set  myself  to  learn  to  paint  with  such  hints 
as  I  could  get  from  other  artists.  I  had  many  hours  of 
discouragement  and  despair,  when  paint  or  brushes 
would  not  behave  themselves  and  frightful  daubs  re- 
sulted. 

I  tried  to  get  Mr.  Hunt  to  help  me,  but  he  declined 
to  interest  himself  in  my  work,  and  Indeed  never  even 


i64  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

came  to  my  studio  all  the  time  I  painted  In  Boston, 
except  once  when  he  came  to  my  door  to  ask  the  ad- 
dress of  another  artist. 

Gradually  I  began  to  master  my  materials,  and  If 
by  some  happy  chance  a  picture  turned  out  well,  I 
was  encouraged.  That  Is  an  artist's  life,  between  ex- 
hilaration at  success  and  despair  at  failure,  and  never 
quite  satisfied.  It  is  so  hard  to  judge  of  one's  own 
work. 

I  went  much  into  society  in  that  winter,  and  was 
one  of  the  good  dancers  at  a  time  when  dancing 
reached  a  perfection  In  Boston  that  It  never  has  since. 
The  grace  and  smoothness  of  the  waltz  evolved  at 
that  time  has  never  been  equalled  elsewhere;  the  fee- 
ble imitation  known  as  the  "Boston"  was  carried 
far  and  wide,  but  seldom  came  up  to  the  original.  The 
present  one-step,  or  walk,  or  wiggle.  Is  the  negation 
of  all  grace  or  beauty. 

In  the  spring  I  became  engaged  to  be  married,  and 
in  the  summer  I  devoted  myself  to  landscape  painting 
without  any  more  instruction  than  a  close  study  of 
nature  could  afford.  In  that  summer  I  had  my  first 
order  for  a  painting,  from  John  Taylor  Johnston,  who 
had  at  that  time  one  of  the  finest  collections  In  New 
York.  I  felt  much  honored,  but  I  knew,  of  course, 
that  it  was  out  of  the  kindness  of  his  heart  and  to  en- 
courage a  young  painter,  rather  than  through  any 


LIFE  AT  HOME  AND  ABROAD       165 

merit  in  the  painting,  which  was  of  the  willow  road  at 
Nahant  and  poor  enough. 

Of  course,  at  that  time,  like  all  beginners,  I  sacri- 
ficed all  the  members  of  my  family  in  the  way  of  por- 
traits or  attempted  portraits,  generally  failures;  for 
one's  relations  have  to  take  the  place  of  the  proverbial 
dog  on  which  things  are  tried. 

I  worked  hard  all  the  following  winter,  and  in  May 
I  was  married,  and,  with  my  father,  my  two  sisters, 
two  aunts,  and  two  uncles,  we  sailed  for  Europe  in 
June,  1868.  Such  a  large  party  found  it  hard  always 
to  find  accommodations,  so  that  my  wife  and  I  often 
went  off  on  little  jaunts  by  ourselves.  I  remember  at 
the  Peacock  Inn  at  Rowsley  our  party  so  completely 
filled  the  little  place  that  nobody  else  could  get  in, 
much  to  the  disgust  of  some  English  people,  who 
loudly  proclaimed  their  contempt  for  American  tour- 
ists. 

My  father  received  much  attention  and  hospitality 
in  different  parts  of  England  and  often  went  with  my 
two  sisters  to  visit,  where  the  rest  of  us  were  naturally 
not  expected.  He  received  degrees  from  both  Cam- 
bridge and  Oxford;  at  the  latter,  however,  in  the  year 
following,  when  he  advanced  in  the  red  robe  pre- 
scribed, to  receive  his  degree  of  LL.D.,  the  under- 
graduates, who  are  no  respecters  of  persons,  called 
out,  "Three  cheers  for  the  red  man  of  the  West." 


i66  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

Queen  Victoria  sent  for  my  father,  and  he  went 
with  Lady  Stanley,  the  wife  of  Dean  Stanley,  to  the 
Palace.  They  waited  in  a  hall  till  the  Queen  came 
in ;  my  father  was  presented  and  they  had  a  pleasant 
chat,  then  the  Queen  withdrew.  It  was  not  like  some 
of  the  weird  tales  imaginative  writers  have  conjured 
up. 

When  we  were  in  the  Isle  of  Wight,  we  all  went  to 
see  Tennyson.  Some  of  us  lunched  with  him,  his  wife, 
and  his  two  boys.  I  do  not  remember  quite  who  were 
of  the  party;  but  I  do  remember  that  my  oldest  sister, 
while  the  older  people  were  apparently  occupied  In 
talking  to  Tennyson,  took  the  opportunity  of  looking 
up  a  verse  In  a  volume  of  my  father's  poems,  rather 
ostentatiously  displayed  on  a  side  table.  There  had 
been  some  discussion  In  the  party  as  to  Its  exact  word- 
ing. My  father  could  not  remember  any  better  than 
the  rest  of  us,  and  strange  to  say  nobody  had  a  copy 
of  my  father's  poems  with  him.  While  my  sister  was 
looking  up  the  passage,  suddenly  a  gruif  voice  behind 
her  said,  "Don't  you  have  enough  of  that  at  home.?" 
—  and  there  stood  Tennyson  towering  over  her.  He 
had  probably  put  the  volume  there,  and  therefore 
knew  what  she  was  looking  at.  My  poor  sister  was 
overcome  with  mortification,  thinking  Tennyson  so 
absorbed  that  he  could  not  have  noticed  what  she 
was  about.  I  also  remember  that  Tennyson  was  very 


LIFE  AT  HOME  AND  ABROAD       167 

rough  to  his  boys  at  lunch  for  some  fancied  misde- 
meanor, and  Mrs.  Tennyson  had  that  subdued  air 
that  comes  of  living  with  a  bear. 

After  lunch  he  took  us  to  the  flat  roof  of  his  house 
to  see  the  view;  while  there  he  saw  in  a  distant  field  a 
woman  and  a  child  running;  I  think  myself  they  were 
running  to  avoid  a  cow  in  the  field,  but  Tennyson 
would  have  it  that  they  were  running  to  get  a  glimpse 
of  him,  and  dragged  us  down  off  the  roof.  He  was 
quite  morbid  on  the  subject  of  sight-seers.  Later  he 
took  us  all  out  on  the  downs  to  the  Needles. 

There  is  a  narrow  neck  only  about  three  feet  wide 
and  perhaps  ten  feet  long  that  you  can  go  out  on,  and 
look  down  upon  the  restless  sea  surging  about  the 
pointed  rocks  called  the  Needles.  It  was  the  only 
place  where  I  ever  felt  dizzy,  owing  to  the  movement 
of  the  water  below;  I  have  been  on  the  edge  of  preci-- 
pices  In  Switzerland  and  walked  on  the  narrow  walls 
of  Egyptian  temples,  but  never  again  have  I  felt 
what  I  felt  then.  I  can  appreciate  how  people  get 
dizzy  on  only  moderate  heights,  and  others  who  can- 
not look  down  from  a  height  without  wishing  to 
jump;  but  none  of  these  things  ever  affected  me. 

Tennyson  also  read  to  us  from  his  poem  of  "Maud  " 
in  a  curious  sing-song  voice  that  perhaps  emphasized 
the  rhythm,  but  was  rather  nasal  and  disagreeable. 

My  father  went  there  to  dine,  I  think,  and  alto- 


N. 


i68  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

gether  I  fancy  Tennyson  was  uncommonly  affable  for 
him;  it  seemed  to  be  part  of  his  pose  to  be  rather  for- 
ward to  strangers  and  went  with  his  Spanish  cloak 
and  black  slouch  hat. 

The  whole  party  stayed  at  the  Hotel  Langham, 
which  was  then  new,  while  in  London. 

Bierstadt,  the  artist,  had  one  of  the  salons  as  his 
studio,  and  gave  a  large  dinner  to  my  father,  asking 
many  celebrities  whom  he  did  not  even  know.  It 
was  a  great  advertisement  for  him. 

My  wife  and  I  did  not  stay  long  at  the  Langham, 
but  took  lodging  in  Half  Moon  Street,  where  we  could 
be  by  ourselves  and  enjoy  a  little  domestic  privacy.  In 
so  doing,  however,  we  missed  seeing  many  interesting 
people  who  came  to  see  my  father.  There  was  one 
M.P.  who  used  to  come  to  see  him  at  one  in  the  morn- 
ing, having  sent  word  from  the  House  that  he  was 
coming  so  that  my  poor  father  had  to  sit  up  to  receive 
him.  My  father  at  home  always  went  to  bed  at  ten, 
and  it  was  hard  for  him  to  get  used  to  the  late  Eng- 
lish hours.  I  don't  suppose  the  M.P.  thought  it  was 
anything  unusual  to  call  upon  a  person  at  that  early 
— or  late — -hour. 

My  father  and  sisters  went  to  Gad's  Hill  for  a 
week-end  with  Dickens,  and  enjoyed  their  visit  very 
much. 

After  several  weeks  in  London,  my  wife  and  I 


\ 


LIFE  AT  HOME  AND  ABROAD       169 

crossed  to  France  by  way  of  Havre  so  as  to  enjoy  the 
cathedral  at  Rouen,  and  to  see  friends  in  Paris.  Then 
we  went  to  Brussels  and  Antwerp,  and  through  Hol- 
land, joining  the  rest  of  the  party  at  Cologne,  and  all 
going  up  the  Rhine  together  to  Switzerland.  There 
we  spent  the  rest  of  the  summer,  returning  to  Paris 
in  September. 

I  took  the  opportunity  while  in  Paris  to  go  for  a 
month  for  work  in  my  old  atelier  in  the  rue  de  Leval, 
which  was  now  under  Bonnar.  When  I  appeared,  some 
of  the  men  demanded  that  I  be  treated  as  a  new  man 
and  pay  an  entrance  fee,  but  to  my  surprise  the 
massier  declared  that  he  remembered  me  perfectly 
and  that  I  was  an  ancien  and  should  pay  nothing.  I 
thought  this  very  nice  of  him,  as  I  could  not  remem- 
ber him  at  all,  and  it  did  not  seem  to  me  that  there 
were  any  of  the  old  crowd.  There  were  several  Ameri- 
cans there  then,  but  I  am  not  sure  of  their  names  now. 

I  did  not  attempt  to  do  anything  but  draw,  as  I 
did  not  feel  expert  enough  in  painting  the  figure  be- 
fore all  these  cleverer  men.  I  also  while  in  Paris  did 
some  copying  in  the  Louvre,  and  during  our  journey- 
ing I  had  made  a  good  many  water-color  sketches,  so 
that  I  had  not  been  neglectful  of  my  art. 

In  November  the  whole  party  went  to  the  Riviera 
and  stayed  for  some  weeks  at  Mentone,  where  I  made 
many  water-colors  in  company  with  my  friend  Mr. 


I70  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

Crownlnshield,  who  was  there  with  his  wife,  mother, 
and  baby.  We  all  took  that  lovely  drive  to  Genoa, 
which  was  not  then  partially  spoiled  by  the  many 
railroad  tunnels.  When  at  Genoa  we  read  in  the 
paper  of  a  wonderful  eruption  of  Vesuvius  that  was 
taking  place,  so  my  wife  and  I  and  Mr.  Appleton 
took  a  steamer  directly  down  to  Naples  to  see  it. 
Alas,  when  we  got  there  it  was  over. 

We  all  settled  down  in  Rome,  in  the  same  house 
with  the  Frank  Lees,  of  Boston,  on  the  Capo  le  Case, 
where  we  had  plenty  of  sun,  an  important  considera- 
tion in  Rome,  where  fire-wood  is  dear.  There  we 
passed  a  very  happy  winter,  enjoying  to  the  full  all 
the  ceremonials  and  services  for  Christmas,  as  also 
much  gaiety  among  the  English  and  American  colony. 
One  amusing  incident  occurred  to  my  father  and 
Mr.  Appleton  on  one  of  these  occasions.  They  were 
bidden  to  a  reception  at  Mr.  Hazeltine's.  As  they 
ascended  the  grand  staircase  of  the  place  where  he 
lived,  they  saw  a  number  of  people  going  into  a  door, 
and  took  it  for  granted  it  was  Mr.  Hazeltine's  apart- 
ment, and  so  they  entered  with  other  guests.  After 
leaving  their  coats  and  hats,  they  were  ushered  into  a 
grand  salon  where  a  strange  lady  advanced  to  receive 
them.  Perceiving  strangers,  she  said  in  a  very 
haughty  and  disagreeable  manner,  "I  think  you  have 
made  a  mistake";  to  which  Mr.  Appleton  replied 


LIFE  AT  HOME  AND  ABROAD       171 

with  meaning,  "We  evidently  have."  Whereupon 
they  withdrew  and  proceeded  to  the  floor  above, 
where  Mr.  Hazeltine  lived.  After  they  had  gone,  a 
gentleman  who  was  there  said  to  the  irate  hostess, 
"Do  you  know  who  that  was  you  turned  away.^*  That 
was  the  poet  Longfellow."  Whereupon  the  lady  threw 
up  her  hands  in  despair,  and  said,  "Oh,  dear!  and  I 
have  been  trying  to  meet  him  all  winter."  Which 
shows  that  it  is  as  well  to  be  polite  since  you  may  en- 
tertain angels  unawares. 

I  took  a  small  studio  for  the  winter  opposite  the 
side  door  of  the  Capuchin  Monastery,  where  every 
day  the  poor  used  to  stand  to  receive  their  daily 
dole.  It  was  quite  interesting  to  watch  them,  and  I 
made  a  small  sketch  of  the  doorway  and  the  beggars 
grouped  about. 

There  were  always  plenty  of  models  in  their  pic- 
turesque costumes  to  be  had,  and  I  made  quite  a  suc- 
cess with  a  quaint  little  fellow  playing  bowls,  which  is 
such  a  favorite  game  in  Italy.  A  Mr.  Lorlmer  Gra- 
ham liked  the  picture  so  much  that  he  got  me  to  paint 
his  little  boy  in  the  same  Italian  costume,  sitting  on 
some  steps.  I  also  had  an  order  from  Mr.  Brimmer,  of 
Boston,  for  a  water-color  of  the  Tritone  Fountain,  so 
that  I  felt  fairly  launched  as  a  professional  artist. 

I  think  that  was  about  the  last  year  of  the  Carni- 
val, and  we  took  a  balcony  on  the  Corso  for  the  three 


172  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

days  It  lasted.  It  was  very  gay  and  noisy,  but  I  could 
not  see  much  fun  in  throwing  confetti  made  of  lime  in 
other  people's  faces,  so  that  they  had  to  wear  masks 
to  protect  their  eyes.  Also  the  flowers  which  were 
thrown  soon  degenerated  into  bunches  of  sticks,  cov- 
ered with  mud  from  falling  into  the  street.  The 
horse-race  also  seemed  to  me  poor  sport.  The  horses 
were  without  riders  and  were  goaded  on  by  having 
thorns  put  under  their  harness,  and  by  the  shouts  and 
blows  of  the  bystanders.  They  were  miserable  speci- 
mens of  horseflesh,  anyway,  and  one  poor  brute  fell 
in  front  of  our  balcony  and  was  beaten  and  pummelled 
till  he  staggered  up  and  on. 

There  was  a  grand  masked  ball  at  the  opera  house 
to  close  the  festivities  and  we  had  a  box  to  look  on. 
Two  American  girls  that  we  knew  went  rather  too  far 
in  their  flirtation  with  an  Italian  prince,  and  I  had  to 
go  down  and  rescue  them  just  as  they,  as  a  lark,  were 
going  off  for  a  ride  with  him.  They  did  not  know  Ital- 
ian princes  and  I  dread  to  think  what  might  have 
happened  to  them. 

Liszt  was  in  Rome  that  winter  living  in  a  convent 
at  the  side  of  the  Forum.  My  father  was  taken  to  see 
him  by  Mr.  Healy,  the  artist,  who  was  a  Catholic. 
They  arrived  at  dusk,  and  Liszt  opened  the  door  him- 
self and  stood  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  with  a  lighted 
candle  held  above  his  head.  He  made  such  a  wonder- 


LIFE  AT  HOME  AND  ABROAD       173 

ful  picture  with  his  tall  figure  and  black  soutane, 
that  my  father  got  Mr.  Healy  to  paint  a  picture  of 
him,  which  we  have  in  the  Craigie  house.  A  few  days 
later  a  number  of  us,  at  Liszt's  invitation,  went  to 
hear  him  play.  As  he  sat  at  the  piano  with  his  iron- 
grey  hair  brushed  back  and  a  rapt  expression  on  his 
face,  he  was  a  striking  object.  His  wonderful  long 
fingers  seemed  to  be  able  to  produce  any  effect  he 
wished  with  slight  effort.  I  do  not  remember  what  he 
played,  but  I  think  it  was  mostly  improvisation,  and 
wonderful  tones  he  produced,  now  low,  now  crashing 
chords,  and  again  noble  harmonies.  He  seemed  very 
proud  of  his  piano,  which  was  a  Chickering  grand 
that  had  been  presented  to  him.  Suddenly  he  ended 
with  a  bang  and,  turning  to  the  ladies,  said,  "Now,  I 
will  play  something  for  the  ladies,"  as  if  he  thought 
they  could  not  appreciate  his  magnificent  perform- 
ance.  He  then  played  something  trivial,  which  was 
not  after  all  a  great  compliment  to  them. 

Besides  the  picture  of  Liszt,  Healy  painted,  as 
I  have  mentioned  before,  a  life-size  portrait  of  my 
father  and  my  sister  Edith,  and  a  small  picture  with 
them  both  standing  beneath  the  Arch  of  Titus. 

When  the  rest  of  the  party  left  Rome  for  Florence, 
my  wife  and  I  stayed  behind  in  order  to  help  Mr. 
Crowninshield  get  away,  who  with  his  family  had  also 
been  passing  the  winter  in  Rome;  he  had  been  very 


174  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

sick  with  Roman  fever.  He  was  so  weak  that  when 
we  got  him  on  the  train  he  cried  Hke  a  baby  from  ex- 
haustion. 

It  was  a  rather  disastrous  delay,  because  when  we 
reached  Florence  I  myself  was  taken  with  the  same 
fever,  and  was  sick  there  for  a  month.  Finally,  in 
spite  of  the  English  doctor's  wishes,  we,  with  the 
whole  party,  went  to  Venice  and  later  to  Cadenab- 
bla,  where  I  finally  got  back  my  strength. 

After  another  trip  through  Switzerland  and  Ger- 
many with  some  members  of  my  wife's  family,  we  re- 
turned to  America  late  in  the  fall  of  1869. 

I  then  took  a  studio  in  Boston  and  set  about  build- 
ing a  house  nearly  opposite  my  father's,  my  wife  and 
I  in  the  meantime  staying  with  him.  I  worked  at  my 
profession  steadily  until  1876,  with  the  exception  of 
a  few  months'  absence  in  the  summer  of  1872,  when 
I  made  a  sketching  trip  to  Switzerland,  the  Italian 
lakes,  and  the  Tyrol.  I  painted  some  portraits,  but 
mostly  figure  pieces  and  landscapes. 

In  the  winter  of  1876  I  felt  the  need  of  more  in- 
struction in  the  figure  and  determined  to  go  abroad 
and  study  with  Couture,  whose  work  I  greatly  ad- 
mired. Before  going  I  had  an  exhibition  and  sale  of 
over  a  hundred  pictures  I  had  painted  In  the  preced- 
ing years.  The  sale  was  very  successful  and  I  reali2ied 
nearly  eight  thousand  dollars. 


LIFE  AT  HOME  AND  ABROAD       175 

I  had  painted  a  large  picture  of  Priscilla  and  John 
Alden  walking  on  the  beach  against  a  sunset  sky, 
which  was  much  praised,  but  was  not  admitted  to  the 
Centennial  Exhibition  at  Philadelphia  of  that  year, 
because,  as  I  was  aware,  the  figures  were  not  as  good 
as  they  should  have  been.  However,  at  the  instance 
of  some  friends  it  was  sent  on  to  Philadelphia  and 
hung  In  the  Massachusetts  Building,  where  many 
people  saw  it.  One  artist  of  eminence  later  told  me 
that  he  used  to  go  often  to  look  at  It,  and  it  in- 
spired him  to  become  an  artist  himself,  so  the  pic- 
ture was  not  painted  In  vain.  But  a  realization  of 
the  weakness  of  the  figure-painting  in  it  Induced  me 
to  go  again  abroad  to  try  and  do  better.  I  after- 
wards destroyed  the  picture,  I  was  so  dissatisfied 
with  It. 

A  picture  of  mine  of  an  old  mill  at  Manchester, 
Massachusetts,  was,  however,  accepted  for  the  Ex- 
hibition and  hung  on  the  line,  so  I  was  in  a  measure 
consoled.  This  picture  also  I  destroyed,  I  now  think 
foolishly.  It  seemed  to  me  on  my  return  from  Europe 
too  dark. 

In  that  spring,  before  leaving  for  Europe,  I  painted 
a  portrait  of  my  father  which  the  family  think  the 
best  portrait  of  him  ever  taken.  It  now  stands  on 
an  easel  in  his  study.  I  am  not  very  pleased  with  It 
myself,  and  think  the  one  I  painted  on  a  commis- 


176  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

sion  for  Bowdoin  College  after  studying  with  Couture 
better. 

After  spending  some  time  at  the  Exhibition  In 
Philadelphia,  my  wife  and  I  and  a  cousin  sailed  for 
France  to  devote  myself  to  work  with  Couture. 


CHAPTER  X 

REMINISCENCES  OF  THOMAS  COUTURE 

It  was  a  beautiful  day  in  the  middle  of  July,  1876, 
when  we  glided  out  of  the  Gare  du  Nord,  in  Paris,  on 
our  way  to  see  Thomas  Couture,  at  the  little  village 
where  for  many  years  he  passed  the  summer  months 
in  the  seclusion  of  the  country. 

We  descended,  after  about  half  an  hour's  ride, 
at  the  little  station  of  Villiers-le-Bel,  which  seemed 
stranded  in  the  open  fields,  as  no  village  was  in  sight. 
We  began  to  fear  that  we  too  were  stranded,  and  had 
perhaps  been  left  at  the  wrong  station.  However,  fol- 
lowing the  few  people  who,  like  ourselves,  had  been 
spilled,  as  it  were,  by  the  now  fast-vanishing  train,  we 
passed  through  the  station,  and  found,  drawn  up  in 
the  shade,  an  old  dusty  omnibus,  with  two  sturdy 
Normandy  horses  attached.  We  were  assured  by  a 
worthy  in  a  blouse,  and  with  a  very  thick  and  almost 
unintelligible  patois,  that  this  would  conduct  us  to  our 
destination,  the  village  of  Villiers-le-Bel  itself,  and 
that  he  would  have  the  honor  to  drive  us. 

With  a  great  cracking  of  the  whip  we  were  soon  off 
at  a  good  pace,  over  a  well-macadamized  road  which 
led  straight  out  into  the  country,  and  the  little  station 


178  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

was  left  deserted  and  quiet  till  the  arrival  of  the  next 
train. 

Before  us  stretched  the  broad,  dusty  road,  and  on 
either  hand,  with  no  fence  between,  were  spread  the 
fields  of  fast-ripening  grain,  waving  and  rippling  in 
the  breeze;  the  great  red  poppies  blazed  in  the  sun, 
and  the  whole  air  was  musical  with  the  larks  soaring 
far  up  in  the  blue  sky.  How  strange  it  all  seemed,  and 
yet  how  familiar!  At  every  step  one  was  reminded 
of  pictures  by  Lambinet  and  Rousseau,  Troyon  and 
Daubigny,  but  Lambinet  more  than  the  others;  for 
he  it  is  who  has  made  this  part  of  France  peculiarly 
his  own,  as  Rousseau  the  Forest  of  Fontainebleau  aTid 
Daubigny  the  river  Oise.  When,  at  one  point,  we 
passed  some  peasants  at  their  noonday  meal  under 
the  shadow  of  their  cart,  which  was  tipped  up  with  its 
shafts  in  the  air,  while  the  good  horse,  with  harness 
off,  browsed  hard  by,  "Ah,"  I  involuntarily  thought, 
"what  a  perfect  Millet!"  So  it  is  that  the  familiarity 
bom  of  books  and  pictures  gives  an  added  charm  to 
travel. 

Aside  from  this,  the  landscape  in  Normandy  has  a 
special  grace  of  its  own.  The  gently  flowing  lines  of 
the  hills,  and  the  wide  stretch  of  level  plain,  without 
fence  or  bound  to  break  the  view,  the  little  hamlets 
scattered  here  and  there,  and  the  groups  of  graceful 
trees,  which  from  the  custom  of  trimming  the  lower 


THOMAS  COUTURE  179 

branches  for  firewood  lift  themselves  against  the  soft 
skies  with  peculiar  character  in  their  silhouettes,  all 
lend  themselves  ready-made  to  the  artist's  hand.  In 
the  atmosphere  full  of  moisture  from  the  English 
Channel,  the  distance  melts  away  in  a  soft  haze,  and 
there  is  never  that  knock-down  aspect  of  things,  near 
or  remote,  with  which  we  are  so  familiar  in  New  Eng- 
land. 

After  a  twenty  minutes'  drive  across  the  level 
plain,  we  reached  the  outskirts  of  the  village,  nestled 
among  its  trees  at  the  foot,  and  running  up  the  slope, 
of  the  hill  of  Ecouen.  As  we  rattled  up  its  little  nar- 
row paved  street,  amid  a  salvo  from  the  driver's 
whip,  which  echoed  and  reechoed  from  the  grey 
houses  on  either  hand  like  a  very  successful  Fourth- 
of-July  celebration,  loungers  came  out  from  doors, 
and  fresh  faces,  framed  in  white  caps,  peeped  at  us 
from  upper  windows,  to  give  and  receive  voluble  sal- 
lies from  our  blue-bloused  driver,  who  was  evidently 
in  high  favor  with  his  townsfolk.  At  length  we 
reached  the  little  square  in  the  middle  of  the  village 
and  drew  up  in  front  of  the  Bureau  de  Poste.  Here 
we  alighted  and  looked  about  us. 

On  one  side  of  the  square  rose  the  little  Gothic 
church,  with  its  spire  terminating  in  a  ridge.  The  in- 
side, unhappily,  has  been  spoiled  by  a  thick  coat  of 
whitewash,  but  the  outside  is  quite  picturesque,  and, 


i8o  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

dominating  as  it  does  the  little  hamlet,  is  an  attractive 
object  from  many  points  in  the  surrounding  country, 
and  has  often  figured  in  pictures  by  French  and  Amer- 
ican artists.  With  the  assistance  of  an  old  gentleman 
with  a  wheelbarrow,  on  which  were  deposited  our  few 
impedimenta,  we  set  out  for  the  inn,  along  one  of  the 
streets  leading  from  the  square.  The  streets  of  Vil- 
liers,  as  in  other  French  country  towns,  are  all  paved 
with  large  square  blocks  of  stone;  the  houses  abut 
directly  on  the  street,  and  the  sidewalk,  where  there 
is  any,  is  also  paved,  and  so  narrow  that  in  places  it 
is  quite  lost,  where  some  obtrusive  house  elbows  its 
way  out  of  the  general  line.  The  gutter  is  often  in 
the  middle  of  the  street  and  answers  for  a  drain  as 
well.  Being  open  to  the  air,  gases  have  no  chance  to 
accumulate;  and  although  you  are  sometimes  greeted 
by  unpleasant  odors,  no  fevers  are  the  result. 

The  inn  proved  to  be  also  a  pastry  cook's.  The 
landlord  was  the  cook,  and  was  rarely  seen  out  of  his 
well-ordered  kitchen,  while  his  wife  sat  all  day  in  the 
shop,  with  her  knitting,  and  demanding  exorbitant 
prices  for  the  very  sweet  but  generally  flavorless  con- 
fitures in  which  the  French  delight.  No  well-regulated 
French  household  ever  makes  its  own  puddings  or 
pies,  but  sends  for  them  to  the  patisserie,  which  there- 
fore exercises  an  important  function. 

In  the  meantime  the  hotel  part  of  the  establish- 


THOMAS  COUTURE  i8i 

ment  was  expected  to  run  itself,  with  such  help  as  it 
could  get  from  the  much-put-upon  man-of-all-work, 
who  did  everything,  from  making  the  beds  to  wash- 
ing out  the  courtyard.  The  natural  result  was  that 
between  overwork  and  Madame's  temper,  which  was 
none  of  the  best,  the  poor  gar^on  generally  left  at  the 
end  of  his  first  month,  to  be  succeeded  by  another  un- 
fortunate. He  in  turn  would  be  summoned  from  his 
bed-making  by  the  shrill  voice  of  Madame  in  the 
courtyard  below,  to  attend  to  some  newly  arrived 
guest,  only  to  be  scolded  back  again  because  his 
rooms  were  not  done. 

We  entered  the  inn  through  the  large  green  doors 
of  the  paved  courtyard,  and  after  paying  our  aged 
conductor  waited  patiently  for  the  clanging  of  the 
great  bell,  which  he  had  set  ringing,  to  subside.  We 
decided  to  postpone  the  inspection  of  rooms  for  the 
more  pressing  demands  of  hunger;  and  so  expressed 
ourselves  to  the  for  once  smiling  landlady.  At  her 
suggestion,  a  table  was  spread  for  us  in  what  was 
called  by  the  somewhat  misleading  name  of  bosquet, 
a  sort  of  arbor  running  along  one  side  of  the  courtyard, 
and  composed  of  straggling  vines  on  espaliers,  and 
sickly  creepers  running  up  the  high  wall  that  enclosed 
the  court  on  that  side.  The  other  three  sides  were  oc- 
cupied by  the  house,  under  which,  in  one  part,  was 
the  stable.   We  felt  that  now  we  were  indeed  in  Bo- 


1 82  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

hernia,  and  our  al  fresco  repast  was  none  the  less  en- 
joyable from  the  fact  that  the  beefsteak  was  tough 
and  the  vin  ordinaire  very  ordinaire. 

Omelettes  and  bread  are  always  good  in  France, 
and  we  found  no  exception  here,  while  later  we 
learned  that  our  landlord  had  a  very  good  vintage  of 
Beaune,  if  we  chose  to  pay  for  it. 

Our  meal  was  shared  by  a  cat  and  a  dog,  the  former, 
however,  only  in  imagination,  as  she  dared  not  de- 
scend from  her  vantage-ground  on  the  high  wall.  The 
dog  was  a  large  setter  in  the  hobble-de-hoy  stage  of 
puppyhood,  and  had  been  christened  "Stop"  by  an 
Italian  artist  at  the  hotel,  with,  I  fear,  rather  vague 
ideas  of  English :  something  as  the  Japanese  supposed 
'■  Come  here"  to  be  the  English  for  dog,  because  their 
masters  used  that  phrase  in  calling  to  them. 

Stop,  this  particular  dog  certainly  never  did,  but 
went  tumbling  over  everything;  getting  between  the 
waiter's  legs,  and  causing  no  end  of  mischief,  but  all 
in  such  a  good-natured  way  that  the  vituperations 
with  which  he  was  greeted  usually  ended  in  caresses. 

After  lunch,  while  the  ladies  installed  themselves  in 
such  rooms  as  we  were  able  to  make  up  our  minds  to 
accept,  I  determined  to  take  the  bull  by  the  horns  and 
pay  my  visit  to  Couture,  to  get  his  consent  to  give  me 
some  instruction.  I  had  often  heard  him  described  as 
a  man  with  a  very  bad  temper  and  brusque  manners, 


THOMAS  COUTURE  183 

and  I  feared  my  imperfect  command  of  the  French 
language  might  lead  me  to  say  something  to  rouse  his 
ire,  as  what  may  be  quite  polite  in  one  language  is 
very  often  rude  in  another.  Besides,  he  had  for  many 
years  refused  to  take  pupils,  properly  so  called,  and 
had  only  recently  made  exception  in  favor  of  some 
American  ladies.  Whether  he  would  take  a  male  into 
his  harem  seemed  quite  doubtful,  and  indeed  he  re- 
fused, while  I  was  there,  to  take  some  Frenchmen  as 
pupils,  though  after  my  advent  admitting  other  Amer- 
icans and  an  Italian. 

It  was  therefore  with  trembling  that  I  sought  the 
abode  of  the  great  man.  I  was  directed  to  a  neighbor- 
ing street,  where  in  a  long,  high  wall,  overhung  by 
beautiful  old  trees,  I  found  the  large  gate  of  his  cha- 
teau as  it  was  called.  Beside  this  gate  was  a  smaller 
one,  with  a  grating  in  it  about  six  inches  square.  I 
pulled  the  iron  bell-rod  that  hung  on  one  side,  and 
immediately,  as  if  both  bell  and  dog  had  been  at- 
tached to  the  same  cord,  there  ensued  a  great  jangling 
and  barking.  Inside  I  heard  the  clack,  clack,  of 
wooden  shoes  coming  across  a  paved  court;  the  slide 
behind  the  little  grating  was  pushed  back,  and  an  old 
woman  in  a  Bretonne  cap  peered  out  at  me.  The  dog, 
meanwhile,  having  been  partially  suppressed,  kept  up 
a  muttered  protest.  "Dear  me,"  I  said  to  myself, 
"this  is  indeed  a  Blue  Beard's  castle";  and  the  dog, 


1 84  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

who  was  still  invisible,  assumed  to  my  imagination 
gigantic  proportions.  In  response  to  my  inquiry  if 
M.  Couture  was  at  home,  —  my  outward  appearance 
being,  I  suppose,  satisfactory,  —  I  was  greeted  with  a 
smiling  ^''  Entrez,  monsieur y"*  and  the  drawing  back  of 
bolts  and  opening  of  the  little  gate.  Somewhat  reas- 
sured by  the  smiles  of  the  old  lady,  and  finding  that 
the  dog,  although  of  evil  countenance,  was  not  so  very 
large,  I  entered,  and  followed  the  Bretonne  cap  and 
wooden  shoes  across  the  court,  that  had  once  been 
laid  out  with  some  care,  with  flower-beds,  and  a  foun- 
tain in  the  middle,  but  was  now  all  in  disorder,  with  a 
general  tangle  of  weeds  and  grasses  growing  up  be- 
tween the  paving-stones.  Bringing  up  the  rear  came 
the  dog,  a  sort  of  mongrel  mastiff,  sniffing  unpleas- 
antly near  to  my  trouser-legs.  Had  I  but  known,  as  I 
very  soon  learned,  that  both  dog  and  master  were  the 
most  good-natured  of  creatures,  instead  of  the  bug- 
bears my  imagination  had  painted  them,  I  should 
not  have  felt  so  like  a  man  going  to  his  execution.  Al- 
though I  still  marched  on,  my  French,  if  not  my  cour- 
age, basely  deserted  me,  and  left  me  to  stumble 
through  the  ensuing  interv^iew  as  best  I  could,  and 
then  taunted  me  when  safely  back  at  the  hotel  with 
what  I  might  have  said,  but  did  not.  The  Chateau 
Couture,  more  properly  a  maison  de  campagne,  was 
a  long,  two-storied  stuccoed  building,  without  much 


THOMAS  COUTURE  185 

architectural  pretence,  like  many  another  country- 
house  in  the  suburbs  of  Paris.  It  rested  so  low  on  the 
ground  that  one  step  carried  you  into  its  front  door, 
or  through  its  long  French  windows.  I  was  ushered 
into  a  room  on  the  left  of  the  entrance,  used,  I  after- 
wards learned,  as  the  dining-room;  catching  on  the 
way,  through  the  door  opposite,  a  glimpse  of  the 
kitchen,  with  its  large,  old-fashioned  fireplace  and 
bright  array  of  copper  saucepans,  evidently  the  pride 
of  the  Bretonne  cap.  Knowing  that  mine  host  had  a 
weakness  for  Americans  as  more  liberal  patrons  of  art 
than  his  own  countrymen  had  proved  to  be,  to  him 
at  least,  I  took  care  to  impress  on  the  good  dame  that 
it  was  an  American  who  wished  to  see  monsieur.  It 
was  an  even  chance  whether  the  disappointment  of 
finding  that  I  was  not  a  rich  American  amateur 
would  not  counterbalance  the  supposed  advantage 
of  my  nationality;  but  I  hoped  for  an  amiable  recep- 
tion before  he  found  that  out. 

Nor  was  I  mistaken.  Clack,  clack,  went  the 
wooden  shoes  up  the  stone  stairs,  and  clack,  clack, 
they  soon  returned,  to  say  that  monsieur  would  im- 
mediately descend. 

The  dog,  all  the  while,  had  followed  close  at  my 
heels,  and  stood  guard  to  see  that  I  did  not  run  off 
with  the  family  spoons.  He  had  a  bloodshot  look  in 
his  eyes  that  boded  no  good  to  any  such  attempt,  and 


1 86  RANDOM  IVlEMORIES 

fearing  he  might  mistake  my  Western  freedom  for  re- 
pubHcan  Hcense,  I  sat  as  still  as  I  could  on  the  edge  of 
mv  chair. 

Presently,  clack,  clack,  clack,  another  pair  of 
wooden  shoes  came  down  the  stairs,  and  there  entered 
a  short,  stout  man,  in  a  broad-brimmed  Panama  hat, 
dressed  in  a  crumpled  suit  of  grey  linen,  and  with 
black  sabots  on  his  feet.  I  rose  as  he  entered,  and  the 
dog,  after  several  violent  blows  with  his  tail  against 
the  table-leg  that  happened  to  be  in  the  way  of  this 
customary  salutation,  laid  himself  down  in  the  sun 
with  a  great  flop  and  sigh  of  relief  that  his  duties  as 
policeman  were  over  for  the  present. 

Couture  —  for  it  was  he  —  extended  to  me  a  soft, 
pulpy,  but  small  and  white  hand,  and  welcomed  me 
.with  much  empressement. 

"Always  charmed  to  see  Americans.  Had  many 
American  amateurs,  who  had  bought  his  pictures," 
etc.  Ah,  I  said  to  myself,  I  feared  as  much !  How  shall 
I  ever  dare  to  undeceive  him.^ 

Seeing  my  evident  embarrassment  in  trjang  to  tj.- 
press  myself  intelligibly,  with  great  tact  he  suggested 
that  we  should  go  for  a  walk  in  the  park,  as  he  called  it. 

He  rightly  divined  that  a  stroll  round  the  grounds 
would  be  less  formal  than  sitting  up  on  chairs,  and 
that  I  should  be  more  at  my  ease  in  the  open  air.  This 
eye  to  the  main  chance  and  extreme  sensitiveness  to 


THO^/IAS  COUTURE  187 

the  feelings  and  motives  of  others,  as  well  as  to  any 
supposed  slight  upon  himself,  I  found  to  be  among 
his  strongest  characteristics. 

His  sharp  little  eyes  read  with  wonderful  insight 
the  characters  of  his  pupils;  and  although  he  under- 
stood not  a  word  of  English,  we  were  often  startled  to 
find  how  quick  he  was  to  interpret  some  passing  re- 
mark from  one  to  another,  v/hen  we  thought  ourselves 
safe  behind  our  foreign  tongue,  and  his  abrupt  ^^  Com- 
ment?^'' would  speedily  bring  us  back  to  our  good 
manners. 

Leading  the  way  into  the  next  room,  Couture 
called  my  attention  to  some  writing  in  charcoal  on  one 
of  the  panels  of  the  white  wainscoting  that  reached  to 
the  ceiling.  At  the  time  of  the  siege  of  Paris  he  had 
written  here  an  appeal  to  the  Prussians  to  spare  his 
house  and  pictures,  as  the  home  of  an  artist  well  known 
in  Europe,  and  some  of  whose  paintings  graced  the 
walls  of  the  galleries  of  Berlin.  I  wish  I  could  remem- 
ber the  exact  words,  they  were  so  naive  in  their  ego- 
tism, of  which  his  having  preser\'ed  them  to  this  day 
was  another  touch. 

This  room,  which  was  the  principal  salon,  must 
have  been  nearly  thirty  feet  long,  and  reached  from 
side  to  side  of  the  house,  with  long  French  windows 
on  either  hand,  through  one  of  which  we  passed  to  a 
terrace  overlooking  the  park.  The  grounds  had  once 


1 88  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

been  laid  out  with  much  skill,  but  Couture's  dislike  to 
spending  money  had  allowed  them  to  become  over- 
grown and  out  of  repair. 

A  broad  vista  of  fine  trees  led  down  to  where  the 
paved  chaussee  from  Paris  to  Ecouen  terminated  the 
estate.  By  skilful  planting,  and  the  substitution  of  an 
iron  paling  for  the  high  wall  that  elsewhere  bordered 
the  road,  this  was  quite  overlooked,  and  the  eye  was 
led  on  over  smiling  fields  to  the  hills  of  Montmorency, 
four  miles  away.  Thus  the  name  of  "park"  did  not 
seem  altogether  undeserved,  although  there  could  not 
have  been  over  six  acres  in  the  whole  place. 

As  we  wandered  about  among  the  trees  and  shrub- 
beries, I  found  little  need  of  talking;  my  companion, 
it  seemed,  liked  nothing  better  than  to  hold  forth. 
With  his  arm  drawn  through  mine,  a  favorite  habit  of 
his  when  walking  with  any  one,  he  stumped  along  in 
his  wooden  shoes,  and  was  the  picture  of  good  nature 
and  bonhomie.  A  short  and  thick  man,  as  I  have  said, 
with  a  great  shock  of  iron-grey  hair  protruding  from 
under  his  old  straw  hat;  small  but  very  bright  eyes, 
set  in  a  rather  heavy  and  puffy  face,  of  a  pale  and  sal- 
low hue;  nose  large,  with  open  and  very  sensitive  nos- 
trils; clean-shaved,  save  for  a  heavy,  drooping  grey 
mustache,  which  concealed  a  large,  sensuous  mouth; 
finally,  a  receding  chin,  almost  lost  in  a  thick  neck, 
suggestive  of  apoplexy,  —  not  a  handsome  man,  cer- 


THOMAS  COUTURE 


THOMAS  COUTURE  189 

tainly.  At  the  same  time,  despite  his  small  stature, 
he  gave  you  a  sense  of  power  that  was  unmistakable; 
there  was  a  flash  in  his  eyes  that  revealed  the  sacred 
fire,  and  you  felt  that  he  was  no  common  man,  as  his 
outward  aspect  might  lead  you  at  first  to  imagine. 
He  was  ungraceful,  but  with  a  certain  old-fashioned 
courtesy,  especially  with  ladies,  that  made  up  for  the 
want  of  polish  that  could  hardly  be  expected  from  his 
origin. 

He  often  made  fun  of  his  awkwardness,  and  told 
amusing  stories  of  going  to  receptions  at  the  Tuileries 
in  the  days  when  he  was  in  high  favor  with  Napoleon ; 
of  putting  his  feet  through  great  ladies'  trains,  and 
committing  other  gaucheries,  to  the  disgust  of  the 
more  accomplished  courtiers. 

I  found  him  anything  but  the  bear  he  had  been  de- 
picted, and,  with  the  exception  of  extreme  sensitive- 
ness to  any  imagined  slight,  the  most  good-natured  of 
men ;  very  fond  of  telling  stories,  and  quite  willing  to 
laugh  at  himself,  but  unwilling  to  be  laughed  at;  very 
sure  that  he  was  the  greatest  painter  living,  and  that 
all  others  were  mere  daubers,  and  very  sore  at  the 
ill-treatment  he  fancied  he  had  received  at  the  hands 
of  the  French  Government  and  artists ;  in  a  word,  a 
childlike  nature  within  a  rough  exterior,  but  very  lov- 
able. Driven  into  voluntary  exile  by  the  jealousy  of 
other  artists  and  intrigues  in  high  places,  for  ten  years 


I90  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

he  did  not  touch  a  brush.  Living  on  the  reputation 
made  in  his  younger  days,  he  could  not  consent  to 
enter  the  arena  a  second  time,  and  notwithstanding 
his  love  of  money  he  was  content  to  remain  idle,  un- 
less spurred  on  to  do  something  by  the  importunity 
of  buyers  seeking  him  out.  I  never  succeeded  in  get- 
ting at  the  rights  of  the  case  in  his  quarrel  with  the 
world. 

The  ill-treatment,  the  slights  cast  upon  him  by 
other  artists,  and  his  breaking  with  the  Government 
when  in  the  midst  of  large  commissions,  because,  as 
he  alleged,  he  would  not  give  a  present  to  the  Min- 
ister of  Fine  Arts  for  procuring  him  these  orders,  may 
have  been  in  great  part  due  to  his  oversensitive  im- 
agination. To  crown  all,  he  rashly  wrote  a  book.  "Oh, 
that  mine  enemy  had  written  a  book!"  All  the  art- 
world  of  Paris  set  up  a  howl,  and  its  echoes  still  linger 
in  the  ateliers  on  either  bank  of  the  Seine.  He  retired 
to  nurse  his  wrongs  at  Villiers-le-Bel,  and  so  entirely 
did  he  become  a  thing  of  the  past  that  most  lovers 
of  art,  if  they  thought  about  him  at  all,  thought  of 
him  as  dead,  and  wondered  why  his  great  painting  of 
"Les  Romains  de  la  Decadence"  was  not  removed  to 
the  Louvre,  as  is  the  custom  with  works  owned  by  the 
State  after  the  artist  has  been  dead  ten  years.  What 
had  the  poor  man  done.''  He  had  written  a  slight 
sketch  of  his  life,  given  an  account  of  his  method  of 


THOMAS  COUTURE  191 

painting,  and  dared  to  criticise,  but  perhaps  without 
sufficient  prudence,  the  works  of  other  painters.  If 
he  had  had  more  worldly  wisdom  he  would  have  held 
his  tongue. 

The  methode  Couture  has  been  a  byword  in  the  ate- 
liers of  Paris  ever  since.  Not  that  It  was  not  a  good- 
enough  system  in  its  way  and  as  employed  by  him; 
but  yet  it  was  a  difficult  method  to  copy,  especially 
when  learned  only  from  his  book,  and  like  a  written 
constitution,  the  too  exact  formulation  of  ideas  gave 
a  chance  for  cavillers  to  find  fault.  To  many,  to  paint 
by  rule,  and  not  by  inspiration,  seemed  absurd.  His 
system  was  either  misunderstood  or  misapplied,  and 
certainly  has  never  been  successfully  held  to  by  any 
of  his  pupils.  Pupils  of  other  men  have  been  allowed 
to  follow  in  the  footsteps  of  their  masters  without  dis- 
credit, but  those  of  Couture  have  been  pursued  relent- 
lessly as  long  as  any  trace  of  the  master's  method  has 
remained. 

Why  this  should  be  I  cannot  say.  Why  bitumen 
used  by  Couture  is  any  more  sinful  than  when  used 
by  others  I  do  not  know,  but  so  it  is.  His  great  aim 
was  freshness  and  purity  of  color,  which  he  sought 
to  get  by  mixing  or  stirring  the  colors  together  as  little 
as  possible,  and  by  placing  on  the  canvas  the  exact 
tint  as  nearly  as  he  could  hit  it,  and  not  disturbing  it 
afterwards.  Rather  than  disturb  it,  he  preferred  either 


192  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

to  remove  an  unlucky  touch  with  the  palette  knife 
and  bread,  or  leave  it  till  dry,  and  then  repaint  it. 

His  great  maxim  was  to  make  haste  slowly.  He 
used  to  say,  "Give  three  minutes  to  looking  at  a 
thing,  and  one  to  painting  it."  "Make  up  your  mind 
exactly  what  ought  to  be  done,  and  then  do  it  with 
rapidity  and  decision,  as  if  it  were  the  easiest  thing  in 
the  world."  "If  a  thing  does  not  come  right  at  first, 
do  not  fuss  over  it,  but  go  to  something  else ;  and,  if 
necessary,  come  back  to  it  later,  when  you  will  often 
find  that  it  is  not  so  bad,  or  at  least  is  so  unimportant 
in  the  general  result  as  to  be  hardly  worth  doing 
over,"  —  all  of  which  maxims  are  most  difficult  to 
beginners. 

The  great  trouble  with  the  mkhode  Couture  was 
that,  like  the  battle-axe  of  Cceur  de  Lion,  only  the 
master  could  wield  it.  To  get  additional  brilliancy, 
he  liked  to  employ  very  long  brushes  that  took  up  a 
great  quantity  of  paint.  This  he  applied  in  a  single 
decisive  touch  with  a  peculiar  movement  of  the  hand, 
which  none  of  us  were  ever  able  to  imitate,  and 
which  left  the  paint  all  bristling  and  sparkling,  like 
grass  with  the  morning  dew  fresh  upon  it.  He  con- 
tended that  when  put  on  in  this  way  and  varnished, 
it  would  remain  fresh  forever,  whereas  the  painting 
over  and  over  resulted  only  in  deadening  the  paint 
and  turning  it  dark  in  time.  Nevertheless,  he  was  al- 


THOMAS  COUTURE  193 

ways  ready,  if  a  thing  did  not  please  him,  either  to 
scrape  it  out,  or,  when  dry,  to  glaze  it  down  and  re- 
paint it,  but  always  trying  as  far  as  possible  to  retain 
the  brilliant  qualities  of  a  first  painting. 

By  this  process  of  glazing  and  repainting  he  was 
able,  contrary  to  the  generally  received  opinion,  to 
obtain,  when  he  chose,  the  most  minute  finish.  Many 
of  his  smaller  pictures  will  bear  witness  to  this,  and  it 
was  only  in  his  larger  canvases  that  he  left  things  in 
what  might  seem  an  incomplete  state. 

He  did  not  invariably  work  in  the  same  way;  but 
his  usual  method  was  to  put  in  the  shadows  with  a 
very  little  bitumen  and  light  red  mixed  with  a  drying 
medium,  then  load  the  lights,  and  by  the  time  the 
shadows  had  become  a  little  sticky  from  drying,  drag 
the  proper  colors  into  them,  which  gave  a  more  trans- 
parent quality  than  painting  them  in  more  solidly 
would  have  done. 

In  his  drawing  he  insisted  on  style:  every  line 
should  express  character,  and  every  line  he  ever  drew 
was  full  of  it.  His  careful  study  of  the  antique  had 
made  him  an  idealist;  he  could  not  be  a  servile  copy- 
ist. With  a  few  telling  strokes  he  would  express  the 
whole  essence  of  an  object  distilled  through  the  alem- 
bic of  his  imagination.  He  was  one  of  the  last  of  the 
classical  school,  and  had  no  sympathy  with  the  grow- 
ing realism  of  the  age,  nor  it  with  him. 


194  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

Alas  for  the  man  who  is  bom  too  late,  or  who  out- 
lives his  proper  period !  He  who  is  ahead  of  his  time 
may  come  to  be  revered  as  a  prophet,  but  he  who  is 
behind  has  no  one  so  poor  to  do  him  reverence.  The 
whirligig  of  time  alone  may  bring  him  adequate  rec- 
ognition. Among  modern  painters,  Couture  is  pre- 
eminent for  nobleness  of  conception  and  design;  but 
in  cleverness  of  technique  he  has  been  much  surpassed. 
His  faults  were  a  certain  dryness  in  execution,  from 
the  roughness  of  his  paint,  and  a  want  of  unity  in  his 
larger  compositions,  arising  in  part  from  his  habit 
of  studying  each  figure  separately,  and  in  part  from 
a  lack  of  feeling  for  the  just  relation  of  values. 

His  fondness  for  subjects  of  a  satirical  nature 
worked  him  harm.  It  is  a  doubtful  point  how  far  art 
should  be  used  as  a  moral  agent,  except  as  it  elevates 
the  mind.  The  satirist  has  his  place,  but  it  is  not  the 
highest  place,  and  the  noblest  art  is  degraded  if  used 
to  point  a  moral  too  openly.  In  such  pictures  as 
"The  Realist"  (a  student  seated  upon  the  bust  of 
the  Venus  of  Milo,  engaged  in  drawing  a  pig's  head), 
"The  Love  of  Gold,"  "The  Courtesan,"  and  similar 
subjects,  he  squandered  the  talent  that  ought  to  have 
been  devoted  to  higher  aims.  It  was,  I  think,  a  per- 
version of  the  intellectual  quality  in  art.  In  "Les 
Romains  de  la  Decadence,"  his  best-known  picture, 
and  the  one  which  made  his  reputation,  we  have, 


THOMAS  COUTURE  195 

however,  a  lesson  of  the  debauchery  of  luxury  and 
vice  which  is  very  powerfully  told.  The  utter  weari- 
ness and  satiety  of  over-indulgence  is  admirably  indi- 
cated in  the  attitudes  and  expression  of  the  figures. 
The  fair  cease  to  charm  and  the  wine  to  cheer,  and 
the  moral  is  not  too  obtrusively  drawn  in  the  despair 
of  the  poet  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  scorn  of  the 
philosophers  on  the  other. 

As  a  portrait-painter  he  was  not  very  successful. 
He  idealized  the  likeness  out  of  his  sitters,  and  left 
only  what  he  thought  they  ought  to  be.  We  prefer 
ourselves  as  our  looking-glass  shows  us,  and  not  as 
others  see  us,  in  spite  of  the  old  saying. 

Before  parting  with  Couture,  on  that  first  visit,  I 
secured  his  consent  to  my  becoming  a  pupil.  He 
seemed  much  less  averse  to  my  project  than  I  had  an- 
ticipated, but  confessed  that  he  had  intended  never 
to  take  another  scholar,  although  willing  to  criticise 
works  brought  to  him  by  artists.  He  had  broken  his 
resolution  because  an  American  girl  had  come  to  him 
and  said,  "/^  ^^^^  prendre  des  lemons y'^  instead  of 
"/^  desire,''^  which  so  amused  him  with  its  maidenly 
imperiousness  that  he  yielded.  Having  once  given 
way  (and,  I  suspect,  seeing  a  chance  for  a  little  money, 
though  he  did  not  mention  that),  he  thought  he  would 
try  a  few  pupils  for  one  summer.  I  was  to  return  the 
next  morning  with  my  paints  and  such  sketches  as 


196  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

I  had  with  me,  that  he  might  see  how  proficient  I 
was. 

I  shall  never  forget  that  morning.  It  was  very  hot. 
After  a  repetition  of  the  formalities  of  the  day  before 
at  the  gate,  only  with  broader  smiles  on  the  part  of 
the  good  dame,  and  this  time  with  appropriate  recog- 
nition on  that  of  the  dog  that  I  was  henceforth  a  priv- 
ileged person,  I  was  shown  up  to  the  room  used  for 
a  studio.  Couture,  with  the  inevitable  straw  hat, 
received  me  warmly,  and  after  rummaging  about 
among  a  lot  of  old  canvases,  at  which  I  longed  to  get 
a  better  look,  produced  a  superb  study  of  a  man  nude 
to  the  waist,  which  he  had  made  years  ago  for  the 
picture  "L'Amour  de  I'Or."  This  he  set  me  to  copy. 
To  put  me  a  little  at  my  ease,  he  took  up  a  book  and 
pretended  to  read,  but  I  felt  all  the  time  that  he  was 
looking  with  those  sharp  little  eyes  at  every  stroke  I 
made.  Although  the  perspiration  started  at  every  pore, 
there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  go  on.  Oh,  how  hot  it 
was!  The  flies  buzzed  on  the  window-panes,  or  lit 
on  my  nose;  there  was  no  other  sound  save  an  occa- 
sional grunt  from  my  tormentor,  whether  of  approval 
or  disgust  I  could  not  tell.  After  a  painful  struggle,  my 
task  was  finished.  I  felt  that  I  had  done  myself  scant 
justice;  but  perhaps  it  was  just  as  well,  as  the  im- 
provement thereafter  would  be  all  the  more  marked, 
and  that  would  please  the  teacher.  With  a  "Not  so 


THOMAS  COUTURE  197 

bad,"  he  informed  me  that  "we  should  soon  change 
all  that,"  and  that  the  next  day  I  could  regularly  begin. 
As  other  pupils  arrived  soon  after,  he  arranged  a  class, 
which  met  at  his  house  during  the  first  week  of  every 
month.  He  would  either  give  us  something  of  his  own 
to  copy,  or,  painting  himself  from  a  model  in  the  morn- 
ing, make  us  do  the  same  in  the  afternoon.  In  this  way 
we  learned  how  he  attacked  a  subject,  and  his  method 
of  treating  it;  also  gathered  many  useful  hints  from 
his  criticism  of  our  own  and  others'  sketches.  The 
rest  of  the  month  we  worked  by  ourselves  from  models, 
or  sketched  in  the  fields,  carrying  the  results  to  him 
for  correction. 

He  liked  to  have  us  come  to  his  house  on  Sunday 
afternoons,  when  he  held  a  sort  of  levee,  seated  under 
the  trees  in  the  park.  Barbedienne,  the  celebrated 
dealer  in  bronzes,  who  was  his  most  intimate  friend, 
often  came  from  Paris  to  pass  his  Sunday,  and  other 
artists  from  the  neighboring  Ecouen,  a  great  centre 
for  genre  painters,  were  frequent  visitors  on  those 
pleasant  afternoons.  Surrounded  by  his  family,  with 
a  clean  white  linen  suit  on,  his  best  Panama  on  his 
head,  and  the  ribbon  of  the  Legion  of  Honor  in  his 
buttonhole,  he  poured  forth  by  the  hour  together  a 
stream  of  racy  anecdotes  and  amusing  conceits. 

The  family  consisted  of  his  wife  and  two  daughters 
and  the  dog  Didi,  a  very  important  member.  When 


198  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

the  Prussians  were  approaching  Paris,  the  Couture 
family  fled,  Hke  so  many  others ;  leaving  the  writing 
on  the  wall  that  I  have  before  mentioned,  to  mollify 
the  conquerors.  But  alas,  on  reaching  Paris  Didi  the 
cherished  was  missing!  He  had  been  left  behind,  and 
the  Prussians  would  surely  get  him.  So,  in  face  of  the 
whole  advancing  host.  Couture  sallied  forth  to  rescue 
the  dog.  He  passed  the  French  lines,  and  advanced  into 
the  now  deserted  country;  he  reached  Villlers-le-Bel  in 
safety,  to  find  it  silent  and  almost  uninhabited,  but  he 
found  the  dog.  As  yet  no  Prussians  were  In  sight,  and 
he  was  about  to  return,  when  suddenly,  over  the  hill 
from  Ecouen,  two  Uhlans  appeared;  they  came  to  a 
halt;  then  two  more  appeared  from  another  direction; 
then,  silently,  stealthily,  like  the  coming-in  of  the 
tide,  from  all  sides,  by  every  alley  and  street,  came  the 
spiked  helmets.  The  village  was  surrounded  and 
occupied,  and  Couture  a  prisoner.  The  officers,  how- 
ever, were  very  kind  and  polite,  and  allowed  him  to 
return  to  his  family  In  Paris  in  triumph,  with  the  dog. 
History  does  not  relate  how  Didi  escaped  being 
eaten  during  the  siege,  but  he  would  have  been  a  tough 
morsel,  and  that  fact  probably  saved  him. 

Couture's  youngest  daughter,  Jeanne,  was  his  fa- 
vorite. She  was  at  that  time  a  very  sweet  girl  of  about 
sixteen,  and  acted  as  her  father's  rapin,  that  Is,  helper 
In  the  studio.  She  kept  his  palette  beautifully  clean, 


THOMAS  COUTURE  199 

washed  his  brushes,  and  always  had  a  fresh  rag  or 
paint-tube  ready  to  his  hand  in  time  of  need.  She 
spoke  a  Httie  EngHsh,  which  she  had  learned  at  school, 
but  was  very  shy  of  her  accomplishment.  Painting  a 
little  herself,  she  took  a  great  interest  in  the  work 
going  on,  and  with  her  dark  olive  skin  and  the  bright 
ribbon  in  her  hair  was  always  a  charming  picture,  be- 
side her  rugged  old  father. 

We  passed  two  summers  at  Villiers-le-Bel,  working  in 
the  manner  described;  the  class  varying  from  two  to 
nearly  a  dozen,  mostly  of  the  fair  sex.  One  day  in  the 
second  summer  there  came  near  being  an  end  to  the 
whole  thing  through  our  touching  the  master  on  his 
sensitive  spot.  We  had  been  having  a  model  whom  we 
all  disliked,  except  Couture,  who  found  in  her  beauties 
lost  on  our  duller  perceptions.  I  suppose  we  regarded 
her  from  too  realistic  a  standpoint.  Her  good  points 
were  all  rudimentary,  and  it  needed  the  master  to  add 
what  nature  had  denied  her.  He  used  to  say  that  he 
preferred  a  thin  to  a  stout  model,  because  you  could 
study  the  structure,  and  could  add  as  much  as  you 
liked ;  whereas  in  the  other  case,  the  flesh  hid  every- 
thing from  view,  and  you  did  not  know  how  much  to 
take  off.  Be  that  as  it  may,  in  this  case  we  got  very 
tired  of  her  and  her  want  of  beauty,  and  without  any 
special  concert  it  so  happened  that  one  fine  morning 
all  the  class  stayed  away,  save  one  faithful  mortal.  I 


200  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

had  taken  the  day  to  go  up  to  Paris  on  necessary  busi- 
ness, and  the  others  had  similarly  found  something 
else  to  do.  Of  course  the  faithful  one  reported  that 
there  was  a  rod  in  pickle  for  us. 

The  next  morning  we  went  to  Couture's  prepared 
for  an  outburst,  and  sure  enough  it  came. 

When  we  assembled  in  the  room  used  for  a  studio. 
Couture  had  not  yet  come  down,  and  he  kept  us  wait- 
ing some  time,  which  was  an  ominous  sign.  Presently 
we  heard  his  wooden  shoes  stumping  along  through 
the  room  leading  to  ours.  He  entered  with  great  cere- 
mony, making  a  low  bow  to  us  all,  and  not  with  his 
usual  jovial  salutation.  He  was  carefully  dressed  in 
his  best,  freshly  shaved  (a  rather  rare  occurrence,  by 
the  way),  with  his  hat  in  his  hand  instead  of  on  his 
head,  and  the  ribbon  of  the  Legion  of  Honor  in  his 
buttonhole,  —  altogether  en  grande  tenue.  Addressing 
me  as  the  oldest  pupil,  he  made  an  oration  on  the  dis- 
respect of  our  conduct,  when  he  gave  us  lessons  only 
as  a  great  favor,  and  wound  up  by  saying  that  this 
rebellion  had  very  much  wounded  his  feelings,  and 
that  he  should  give  us  no  more  instruction.  Feeling 
that  I  was  called  upon  to  speak  for  the  others,  I  ex- 
pressed my  extreme  regret  at  what  had  happened; 
explained  that  no  disrespect  was  intended,  that  I  had 
been  obliged  to  go  to  town  on  business,  and  that  it 
was  a  mere  accident  that  the  others  stayed  away  at 


THOMAS  COUTURE  201 

the  same  time.  Remembering  that  the  French  are 
more  easily  influenced  by  an  epigram  than  a  sound 
reason,  I  wound  up  by  saying  that  what  he  had 
thought  a  revolution  was  nothing  at  most  but  an 
emeute^  and  should  not  be  regarded  seriously.  This 
had  the  desired  effect:  the  clouds  cleared  away,  he 
burst  out  laughing,  and  we  all  set  to  work,  and  I 
never  knew  him  more  good-natured  than  he  was  for 
the  rest  of  the  day.  And  so  the  lessons  went  on. 

The  last  time  I  saw  Couture  was  in  Paris,  in  the 
autumn  of  1878.  We  were  about  leaving  for  Egypt, 
and  invited  him  and  his  daughter  Jeanne  to  come  and 
lunch  with  us  at  our  hotel  in  the  Latin  Quarter.  He 
was  in  a  ver)^  hilarious  mood,  and,  like  a  schoolboy 
out  for  a  holiday,  bent  on  enjoying  himself.  After 
our  repast  we  proposed  that  we  should  all  go  to  the 
Exposition  and  look  at  the  pictures;  thinking  his 
criticism  would  be  both  instructive  and  amusing.  But 
no;  he  said  he  was  tired  of  the  Exposition;  he  was  a 
provincial  up  from  the  country,  and  preferred  to 
flaner  in  the  streets  of  the  great  city.  So  off  we  set; 
Couture  in  front  with  my  wife  on  his  arm,  and  I  be- 
hind with  mademoiselle. 

We  must  have  made  a  queer  group,  and  I  am  afraid 
the  good  people  at  home  would  have  been  much 
scandalized  at  our  behavior.  Couture  acted  out  to  the 
letter  the  part  of  countryman;  insisting  on  looking 


202  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

in  all  the  shop  windows,  as  if  he  had  never  before 
been  in  Paris;  caUing  loudly  to  Jeanne  to  come  and 
admire  some  object;  rushing  wildly  across  the  street, 
to  his  own  and  my  wife's  imminent  peril,  his  hat  usu- 
ally flying  off  in  the  passage,  which  we  behind  were 
obliged  to  rescue  from  under  the  feet  of  the  horses  or 
wheels  of  passing  cabs. 

Even  in  Paris,  where  people  are  used  to  eccentric 
behavior,  such  actions  and  actors  attracted  a  good 
deal  of  notice,  and  I  was  glad  to  get  him  into  Goupil's 
on  pretence  of  showing  him  one  of  his  own  pictures 
which  I  had  seen  there  several  days  before.  The  young 
man  who  conducted  us  to  the  gallery  upstairs  seemed 
at  first  inclined  to  treat  with  much  coldness  such  an 
unpromising  set  of  visitors,  and  with  reluctance  pro- 
duced the  head  I  asked  for.  No  sooner  was  it  placed 
on  the  easel  than  Couture  burst  out  in  derisive  laugh- 
ter, abused  it  roundly,  and,  although  it  was  an  un- 
doubted Couture,  saw  fit  to  ridicule  the  whole  thing. 
The  showman  was  naturally  much  incensed,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  point  out  to  us  the  excellences  of  the  paint- 
ing; but  Couture  would  not  listen  to  him,  and  con- 
tinued to  call  it  all  sorts  of  names,  saying  that 
they  used  to  make  omelettes  on  it,  and  kicked  it  about 
generally  in  the  atelier.  The  man  now  looked  puz- 
zled, as  if  he  were  dealing  with  a  madman;  suddenly 
a  gleam  of  intelligence  shot  across  his  face,  as  he  be- 


THOMAS  COUTURE  203 

gan  to  realize  that  this  eccentric  must  be  Couture 
himself.  Never  was  there  a  greater  change:  he  ran- 
sacked the  whole  shop  for  pictures  that  would  in- 
terest us,  and  finally  bowed  us  out  with  all  the  obse- 
quiousness he  could  muster. 

It  was  now  time  for  Couture  and  his  daughter  to 
leave  us,  to  take  the  train  for  Viliiers-le-Bel,  and  the 
flourish  of  the  large  Panama  hat  from  a  cab  window 
was  the  last  I  ever  saw  of  my  worthy  master. 


CHAPTER  XI 

WINTER  IN  SIENA 

After  two  summers  spent  at  Villlers-le-Bel  with  Cou- 
ture, a  winter  with  friends  in  a  villa  outside  of  Siena, 
one  in  Paris,  and  another  in  Egypt  followed  by  a  spring 
in  Spain,  in  all  which  time  I  made  many  sketches  and 
finished  pictures,  we  returned  to  America  in  August 
of  1879.  If  variety  is  the  spice  of  life,  the  two  winters, 
one  in  Siena,  and  one  in  Egypt  certainly  presented 
contrast  enough. 

After  my  first  summer  with  Couture,  and  a  sketch- 
ing tour  through  Normandy,  we  went  by  way  of  the 
Riviera  down  into  Italy  to  Siena,  where  we  shared  a 
villa  with  an  artist  friend  and  his  family.  This  villa 
was  a  rather  unpretentious,  square-looking  building, 
without  any  architectural  features.  The  lower  floor 
was  given  up  to  storerooms.  On  the  piano  nohile, 
or  second  floor  as  we  should  call  it,  were  the  dining- 
room  and  salons  and  my  friend's  studio  and  sleeping- 
quarters.  My  wife  and  I  had  a  bedroom  on  the  north- 
eastern corner  of  the  floor  above,  with  a  view  over  the 
hills  to  Siena ;  also  a  large  room  with  north  light  that 
I  used  as  a  studio. 

Siena  has  a  climate  in  winter  that  is  not  unlike  that 


WINTER  IN  SIENA  205 

of  New  England,  only  not  so  cold;  it  is  much  dryer 
than  Rome,  with  cold,  frosty  mornings  and  more  snow 
and  ice.  There  was  no  way  of  heating  the  villa  ex- 
cept with  one  or  two  stoves  and  scaldini,  and  I  must 
say  it  was  pretty  cold.  I  had  chilblains  for  the  first 
time  since  I  was  a  child,  and  had  to  sleep  and  dress  in 
an  unheated  room.  Besides,  in  Italy  those  oiled  and 
polished  floors  of  cement,  slippery  as  glass,  keep  your 
feet  perfectly  frozen.  I  remember  Mark  Twain,  who 
had  a  villa  outside  of  Florence,  called  the  large  cen- 
tral hall,  with  its  slippery  floor,  his  skating-rink. 

The  villa  was  surrounded  with  fields,  with  olive 
trees  and  vines.  There  was  a  fattore,  or  farmer,  who 
had  charge  of  the  farm  and  looked  after  the  crops  and 
the  people,  men  and  women,  who  worked  in  the  fields, 
and  was  responsible  to  the  owner  of  the  villa,  not  to  us. 
The  male  cook  did  the  marketing  and  settled  his  ac- 
counts every  evening  with  my  friend,  often  with  much 
wrangling.  My  wife  and  I  paid  our  share  of  the  ex- 
penses, and  were  glad  to  be  free  of  any  of  the  troubles 
of  housekeeping. 

The  villa  was  about  three  miles  outside  the  north 
gate  of  Siena,  and  by  walking  three  quarters  of  a  mile 
to  the  main  road  one  could  get  a  public  conveyance 
to  the  centre  of  the  city.  One  could  also  have  a 
carriage  sent  out  if  necessary. 

The  country  around  Siena  is  a  beautiful  hilly  country 


2o6  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

with  olive  groves  and  cypresses,  and  those  villas 
and  small  towns  perched  on  the  top  of  hills  so  char- 
acteristic of  Tuscany.  The  olive  trees,  in  that  part 
of  the  country,  are  cut  off  at  the  top,  I  suppose  to  in- 
crease their  bearing  qualities.  Their  silvery  almost 
smoke-like  color,  with  the  dark  green  of  the  umbrella 
pines  and  cypresses,  make  a  beautiful  contrast  to  the 
reddish  soil,  which  has  given  its  name  to  burnt  and  raw 
siena.  The  olive  trees  are  planted  in  rows,  and  be- 
tween them  grow  the  wheat  and  the  vines;  thus  three 
crops  mature  side  by  side. 

We  went  often  at  first  to  do  the  sights  of  Siena,  but 
the  narrow  streets  where  the  sun  rarely  penetrates 
are  very  cold  and  draughty  in  winter.  There  are  no 
sidewalks,  and  everybody  walks  in  the  middle  of  the 
street,  as  is  the  custom  in  Italy,  with  the  risk  of  being 
run  over;  but  nobody  ever  is.  I  suppose  this  custom 
arose  from  its  being  safer  in  the  middle  of  the  street 
in  the  days  when  you  might  be  stabbed  in  the  back 
if  you  were  too  near  the  wall. 

In  the  afternoons  the  nobility  of  Siena  drive  round 
and  round  the  public  garden,  as  they  do  the  Pincio 
at  Rome.  However  poor  they  may  be,  if  they  can 
possibly  afford  a  carriage  they  must  put  in  an  appear- 
ance with  a  man  in  livery  on  the  box.  They  are  mostly 
very  poor,  and  while  they  will  sit  at  home  in  the  morn- 
ings, in  their  cold  palaces,  shivering  over  a  scaldino,  in 


WINTER  IN  SIENA  207 

the  afternoon  they  promenade  or  drive  where  the 
world  can  see  them;  even,  as  sometimes  happens,  two 
families  will  own  a  carriage  between  them,  hiring  the 
horses  and  having  their  own  livery  on  the  coachman 
and  appearing  on  alternate  days;  everything  to  keep 
up  appearances,  which  deceive  nobody.  Such  shabby 
liveries  and  worn-out  horses  and  carriages  it  would  be 
hard  to  match. 

Siena  is  as  medieval  In  all  respects  as  It  was  three 
hundred  years  ago,  and  is  therefore  one  of  the  most 
interesting  cities  in  Italy.  Its  gloomy  streets  and  for- 
bidding palaces,  built  more  for  defence  than  comfort, 
with  iron  rings  to  which  horses  can  be  hitched  and 
sconces  in  which  torches  can  be  placed,  still  remain; 
and  also  its  beautiful  striped  cathedral  of  black-and- 
white  marble,  and  above  all  its  wonderful  tower,  one 
of  the  most  beautiful  in  Italy,  that  dominates  the 
semicircular  piazza  in  which  the  market  Is  held  and 
where,  on  certain  days,  horse-races  take  place.  Even 
the  art  of  Siena  is  of  the  most  medieval  kind.  Its 
primitives  are  almost  more  primitive  than  elsewhere. 
Sodoma,  its  greatest  painter,  alone  seems  Imbued  with 
a  more  modern  spirit.  Some  people  like  this  stiff 
and  curiously  awkward  school,  but  I  confess  It  does 
not  appeal  to  me. 

I  love  the  silhouettes  of  old  towns  on  the  hilltops  of 
Tuscany,  and  never  tired  of  the  view  of  Siena  from 


2o8  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

our  windows,  especially  in  the  early  mornings  when 
its  blue  outline  so  distinguished  floated  in  the  rosy 
mist  of  dawn.  One  morning,  being  very  energetic,  I 
arose  at  five,  and  walked  a  mile  or  more  to  make  a 
sketch  of  the  town  in  the  morning  light  with  a  better 
foreground  than  could  be  had  from  my  window. 

I  found  charming  models  among  the  peasant  girls, 
with  their  picturesque,  flapping,  wide-brimmed  leghorn 
hats;  also  a  dear  little  maid  who  stood  bashfully  at  a 
doorway.  I  got  the  parish  priest  to  sit  for  me,  and 
through  him  a  Capuchin  monk.  I  had  asked  for  one  of 
the  brothers;  but  to  my  surprise  the  head  of  the  mon- 
astery came  himself,  and  seemed  much  interested.  I  re- 
member he  took  a  hand-glass  and  compared  himself  in 
the  glass  with  the  portrait,  as  if  he  did  not  really  know 
how  he  looked;  and  perhaps  they  do  not  have  any- 
thing so  frivolous  as  a  looking-glass.  I  also  painted 
a  portrait  of  my  friend's  wife  and  little  boy,  besides 
working  up  some  of  the  sketches  I  had  made  on  the 
Riviera.  Altogether  I  had  a  very  busy  winter. 

I  found  at  the  villa  a  rather  interesting  situation. 
My  friend  had  been  there  over  two  years,  and  was  en- 
gaged on  a  large  and  important  picture:  that  is.  Im- 
portant to  him,  as  he  expected  to  make  his  reputation 
by  it,  and  in  the  meantime  was  living  on  his  principal, 
because  he  felt  sure  that  he  would  make  his  fortune 
when  the  picture  was  done,  and  more  than  make  up 


WINTER  IN  SIENA  209 

what  he  was  spending  while  the  picture  was  in  the 
making.   Certainly  a  gamble. 

In  order  that  this  great  work  should  last  to  the  end 
of  time,  he  had  spent  much  time  experimenting  with 
colors,  to  see  which  were  the  most  permanent  in  all 
conditions  of  light  and  weather,  even  exposing  them 
on  the  outside  of  the  villa  walls.  I,  who  am  of  a  scep- 
tical disposition,  could  not  help  asking  myself  what 
was  the  good  of  all  this,  if  the  picture  should  turn  out 
a  failure;  then,  instead  of  wishing  it  to  last  forever, 
you  would  not  care  if  it  perished. 

However,  my  friend  was  very  confident  of  his  own 
powers,  and  had  determined  to  shut  himself  away  from 
outside  influence  in  this  villa  for  three  years,  so  as  to 
produce  a  very  original  and  unique  work.  Sometimes 
this  system  works,  but  as  a  rule  it  is  better  for  an 
artist  to  associate  constantly  with  other  artists  and 
compare  their  work  with  his  own.  If  an  artist  is  sur- 
rounded only  by  his  own  work,  it  gets  to  seem  to  him 
very  good,  as  he  has  nothing  else  by  which  to  judge  it. 

Of  course,  in  the  two  years  my  friend  had  been  work- 
ing on  his  picture,  he  had  made  many  studies  and  ex- 
periments, and  I  had  expected  to  find  the  picture 
nearly  done.  It  was  two  or  three  weeks,  however, 
before  he  would  let  us  see  it.  It  was  surrounded  with 
much  mystery,  and  I  could  see  that  he  was  very  sen- 
sitive to  criticism,  and  dreaded  to  show  it  to  us.  How- 


210  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

ever,  after  much  persuasion  and  with  a  great  deal 
of  ceremony,  we  were  finally  permitted  to  enter  the 
sacred  precincts  of  the  studio. 

The  picture,  about  six  feet  by  eight,  was  as  yet  only 
In  outline,  yet  there  were  but  three  figures  in  It,  life- 
size;  two  women  and  a  child.  It  was  a  beautiful  out- 
line, however,  and  had  some  of  the  qualities  of  the  old 
masters.  Whether  the  influence  of  the  pictures  In  Si- 
ena had  anything  to  do  with  it,  I  cannot  say;  but  the 
drawing  was  stiff  and  naive,  quite  in  the  style  of  the 
primitives;  there  was  also  a  landscape  background 
that  reminded  one  of  the  backgrounds  of  early  Italian 
art. 

My  friend  had  evidently  spent  much  time  over  the 
drawing,  and  I  could  imagine  that  he  had  sat  before  it 
many  hours  In  contemplation,  before  he  could  make 
up  his  mind  to  begin  putting  on  the  color.  I  know 
well  that  feeling;  you  have  to  wait  till  you  are  in  the 
right  mood  to  begin  work  that  may  spoil  what  you 
have  already  attained.  It  is  so  hard  to  hold  on  to  the 
first  conception  of  your  picture;  paint  is  a  stubborn 
medium  to  work  in,  and  will  not  always  obey  your 
will. 

Sometimes  when  the  gods  are  kind,  a  picture  seems 
almost  to  paint  itself,  but  more  often  there  are  three 
stages  in  a  painting :  when  you  first  lay  it  in,  and  you 
think  everything  promises  well;  then  from  some  per- 


WINTER  IN  SIENA  '       211 

verslty  you  spoil  it;  and  the  rest  of  the  time  you  spend 
in  trying  to  get  it  back  to  your  first  conception.  The 
result  is,  you  are  never  satisfied,  and  are  apt  to  make 
bad  worse  by  puttering  over  it.  So  I  could  well  under- 
stand my  friend's  reluctance  to  begin  painting,  and 
perhaps  spoiling  his  beautiful  outline.  However, 
stimulated,  it  may  be,  by  the  amount  of  work  that  I 
was  accomplishing,  he  soon  started  in  to  put  on  the 
color.  He  seldom  let  us  see  the  picture  after  that,  and 
he  had  not  got  very  far  with  it  when  we  left,  about 
the  beginning  of  March. 

A  year  later,  the  picture  was  finished,  and  with  the 
help  of  a  friend  at  court,  and  much  influence  brought 
to  bear  on  the  jury,  it  was  admitted  to  the  Salon  and 
well  hung.  When  I  first  saw  it  in  the  Salon  of  that 
year,  I  was  horribly  disappointed.  All  the  charm  of 
the  outline  had  vanished.  The  color  was  too  hot  and 
the  handHng  heavy.  If  my  friend  had  carried  out  the 
picture  in  the  delicate  colors  of  the  primitives,  he 
might  have  retained  some  of  its  naive  quality;  as  it 
was,  the  picture  was  a  total  failure,  and  I  felt  keenly 
for  my  friend,  who  had  staked  so  much  on  Its  success. 

He  came  up  to  Paris  with  his  whole  family  to  en- 
joy his  supposed  triumph,  and  I  engaged  rooms  for 
them  In  a  small  hotel  in  the  Latin  Quarter.  I  also  met 
them  at  the  station,  but  I  could  not  find  it  In  my  heart 
to  say  anything  about  his  picture,  although  I  saw  he 


212  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

was  dying  to  know  what  I  thought  of  it.  I  was  told 
afterward  that  he  complained  of  my  unsympathetic 
attitude,  and  I  suppose  thought  I  was  jealous.  But 
what  could  I  do .?  I  could  not  praise  it,  and  I  could  not 
tell  him  how  bad  it  was. 

The  next  day  he  set  off  with  his  mother  to  see  his 
picture  in  the  Salon  and  came  home  a  crushed  and 
disillusioned  man.  When  he  saw  his  picture  sur- 
rounded by  the  works  of  others,  he  realized  his  failure, 
and  never  went  near  it  again.  It  is  bad  enough  to 
have  your  picture  rejected  at  the  Salon;  but  worse  to 
have  it  accepted  and  then  turn  out  a  failure.  One  of 
my  cousins,  an  architect,  was  once  talking  with  the 
wife  of  a  doctor,  who  was  lamenting  that  her  hus- 
band had  just  lost  an  important  patient  by  death, 
when  my  cousin  said,  "When  your  husband  makes  a 
failure,  it  is  buried  out  of  sight;  but  when  I  make  one, 
I  have  to  look  at  it  the  rest  of  my  days."  So  it  is  not 
always  the  artist  who  has  his  work  rejected  or  badly 
hung  that  is  the  worse  off,  for  his  failure  is  not  seen 
by  the  public. 

I  once  heard  a  story  of  an  artist  at  an  exhibition 
who  spent  his  time  hovering  about  his  picture  to  hear 
what  people  would  say  about  it.  Alas,  nobody  paid 
the  least  attention  to  it  for  a  long  time ;  at  last  an  old 
gentleman  planted  himself  in  front  of  it  and  gazed  at 
it  for  a  long  time.  Just  as  the  artist  was  approaching 


WINTER  IN  SIENA  213 

to  hear  it  praised,  the  old  gentleman,  with  a  snap 
of  his  fingers,  and  a  contemptuous  "Poof,"  walked 
disgustedly  away. 

When  you  think  of  those  three  years  my  friend  had 
spent  on  that  picture,  and  the  high  hopes  he  had  of 
making  a  reputation  for  himself  through  that  one 
magnum  opus,  it  was  a  tragedy.  My  friend,  however, 
was  not  the  kind  to  be  easily  discouraged,  and  al- 
though he  had  the  picture  on  which  he  had  spent  so 
many  hours  destroyed,  he  girded  up  his  loins  and 
later  became  a  successful  artist. 

I  was  once  telling  this  story  at  a  dinner  party  in 
Paris,  when  Henry  James,  who  was  present,  asked  if 
he  could  not  have  it  to  work  up  into  one  of  his  tales.  I 
said  no,  because  it  would  be  too  obvious  who  the  art- 
ist was,  and,  as  he  was  then  alive,  it  might  hurt  his 
feelings.  Now  that  he  has  passed  away,  I  see  no  harm 
in  telling  it,  as  an  example  of  the  disappointments  and 
trials  of  artists.  I  am  sorry  now  that  Henry  James 
could  not  have  made  it  into  one  of  his  wonderful  psy- 
chological studies,  as  he  would  so  beautifully  have 
done,  and  made  so  much  more  of  a  story  of  it  than  I, 
who  am  not  a  story-teller. 

The  following  winter  we  spent  in  Paris,  where,  after 
searching  in  vain  for  a  suitable  furnished  apartment, 
we  took  a  large  studio  with  small  unfurnished  rooms 
in  the  house  of  Francois,  the  landscape-painter,  on  the 


214  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

Boulevard  du  Montparnasse.  We  bought  a  small 
amount  of  furniture  and  a  hatterie  de  cuisine,  and  be- 
gan housekeeping  with  a  worthy  honne  whose  sole  re- 
quirements for  recreation  were  satisfied  by  sitting  out 
on  the  sidewalk  gossiping  with  the  neighbors. 

I  shared  the  studio  with  Mr.  Edward  Boit,  who  was 
living  in  the  country  that  winter,  and  who  came  In 
every  day  to  work. 

I  had  the  ambition  to  paint  a  large  painting,  more 
for  the  practice  than  with  any  expectation  of  great 
success.  As  I  had  a  tendency  to  too  finicky  a  style,  I 
thought  a  large  canvas  would  broaden  my  execution 
and  give  me  greater  freedom.  Accordingly  I  attacked 
a  canvas  eight  feet  by  ten  with  a  composition  "repre- 
senting "  the  choice  of  youth, "  with  five  life-size  fig- 
ures and  a  child.  It  was  rather  beyond  my  powers, 
and  I  found  the  grouping  of  the  figures  difficult;  but  I 
thought  it  better  to  aim  high  than  to  go  on  with 
merely  easy  subjects.  The  overcoming  of  difficulties 
Is  one  of  the  joys  of  life. 

I  worked  hard  at  this  work,  rarely  getting  out  till 
after  dark,  except  on  Sundays.  It  is  one  of  the  disad- 
vantages of  having  a  studio  In  the  house  where  one 
lives  that  one  is  tempted  to  go  to  work  right  after 
breakfast,  without  having  a  walk  in  the  fresh  air  first, 
and  to  work  all  day  as  long  as  the  light  lasts,  with 
only  a  few  moments  snatched  for  lunch. 


WINTER  IN  SIENA  215 

I  had  good  models  and  had  made  a  good  start  when 
unfortunately  I  had  a  bad  fall  from  a  scaffolding  which 
brought  on  a  serious  illness.  Gradually  the  vigor  with 
which  I  had  begun  the  picture  faded  out  with  illness, 
and  finally  the  doctor  ordered  me  to  Biarritz,  leaving 
the  picture  unfinished.  As  it  turned  out,  he  could  not 
have  ordered  me  to  a  worse  place  for  the  nervous  dis- 
order brought  on  by  my  fall.  I  always  think  of  the 
story  of  a  French  doctor  who  told  a  friend  he  was  go- 
ing away  for  a  rest.  The  friend  asked  where  he  was 
going,  and  he  replied,  "Trouville."  "Oh,"  said  the 
friend,  "  I  thought  you  always  sent  your  patients  to 
Biarritz."  "Oh,  those  were  my  patients,"  said  the  doc- 
tor; Biarritz  being  rather  dull  and  Trouville  quite 
the  contrary. 

I  returned  in  April,  not  much  the  better  for  the  va- 
cation, and  tried  to  finish  the  picture;  but  my  vigor 
was  gone,  and  I  was  so  little  satisfied  with  the  result 
that  I  was  not  surprised,  though  of  course  disap- 
pointed, that  it  was  refused  at  the  Salon  the  following 
spring.  Couture  had  come  to  see  it,  and  praised  it,  es- 
pecially the  landscape  background  and  the  draperies. 
He  was  anxious  for  me  to  let  him  touch  it  up  in  places, 
as  so  many  masters  do  touch  up  their  pupils'  work, 
but  I  was  too  proud  to  let  him.  Some  of  the  heads 
were  much  praised  by  others,  but  on  the  whole  the 
work  was  not  up  to  so  ambitious  an  attempt,  and 


2i6  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

could  not  be  considered  a  success.  However,  I 
thought  it  had  been  a  good  lesson,  and  taught  me  to 
paint  more  from  the  shoulder. 

We  went  that  summer  to  Switzerland,  where  the 
dry  and  bracing  air  of  the  High  Alps  cured  my  trouble. 
If  doctors  would  study  the  climatic  influences  more, 
they  would  not  make  so  many  mistakes.  We  did  a 
good  deal  of  climbing  at  Chamonix,  my  wife  going 
mostly  on  muleback,  and  finally  made  the  tour  of 
Mont  Blanc,  coming  out  at  Courmayeur  —  a  wonder- 
ful trip.  From  there  we  went  by  the  Val  d'Aosta  over 
the  Theodule  Pass  to  Zermatt.  After  some  time  passed 
at  the  Riffel  climbing  and  sketching,  we  went  down 
the  valley,  and  climbed  up  to  the  Bel-Alp,  on  the  op- 
posite side  of  the  Rhone  Valley.  There  we  made  the 
acquaintance  of  Tyndall  and  his  charming  wife,  who 
had  a  cottage  near  the  hotel.  Tyndall,  who  reminded 
me  of  a  New  England  farmer  in  his  appearance,  was 
very  kind,  and  on  one  occasion  took  me,  with  others, 
out  on  the  Aletsch  Glacier,  and  gave  us  a  most  inter- 
esting lecture  on  glacial  formations.  Unfortunately, 
the  weather  turned  very  bad  and  the  cold  and  damp 
of  the  hotel,  which  was  not  properly  heated,  brought 
on  a  rheumatic  fever  which  caused  my  wife  much 
suiferlng. 

Mrs.  Tyndall,  a  charming  woman,  was  very  kind 
to  my  wife  in  her  illness,  as  was  also  Mr.  Tyndall's 


WINTER  IN  SIENA  217 

mother,  Lady  Hamilton,  who  was  staying  with  them. 
One  cannot  help  recalling  the  tragedy  of  Tyndall's 
death,  when  his  devoted  wife  gave  him  poison  in  mis- 
take for  another  medicine.  What  a  frightful  moment 
for  her! 

With  great  difficulty  I  got  my  wife  down  to  Vevey, 
where  I  was  able  to  get  a  good  doctor,  as  there  was 
none  at  Bel-Alp;  only  a  fellow-traveller  who  was  a 
doctor,  and  had  some  morphine  tablets  with  which  he 
was  able  to  relieve  her  pain  a  little. 

It  was  In  a  great  measure  owing  to  this  illness  that 
we  decided  to  pass  the  next  winter  In  Egypt,  in  the  hope 
of  getting  the  rheumatism  out  of  her  system.  After  a 
short  stay  in  Paris,  and  after  getting  the  address  of  a 
good  dragoman  from  Mr.  John  Field,  of  Philadelphia, 
who  with  his  wife  happened  to  be  In  Paris,  and  had,  a 
short  time  before,  been  up  the  Nile,  we  were  able  to 
make  arrangements  with  some  friends  from  Boston, 
who  were  in  London,  to  join  us  for  the  winter. 

Mr.  John  Field  was  rather  a  character,  a  friend  of 
my  father's,  and  had  been  often  at  our  house  in  Cam- 
bridge. He  was  a  great  and  interesting  talker,  very 
fond  of  society,  and  especially  loved  visiting  In  Eng- 
lish country-houses  and  hobnobbing  with  the  nobil- 
ity. His  wife  I  had  never  met  before,  but  she  was  a 
dear,  unselfish  woman,  who,  not  being  strong,  was 
content  to  remain  in  the  shade,  so  that  her  John 


2i8  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

could  enjoy  himself;  well  knowing  that  Invalid  wives 
are  not  so  welcome  at  country-houses  as  are  unat- 
tached husbands. 

We  sailed  from  Marseilles  for  the  Piraeus  In  a 
French  steamer,  stopping  at  Naples  on  the  way.  I  do 
not  remember  passing  the  Straits  of  Messina  or  the 
beautiful  view  of  ^tna  that  you  get  farther  on,  which 
I  have  seen  so  often  since ;  but  I  do  remember  the  won- 
derful color  of  the  mountains  of  Greece  as  we  coasted 
its  southern  shore. 

We  spent  a  week  or  so  at  Athens,  as  we  found 
friends  there,  and  I  made  several  sketches  of  the  Acrop- 
olis and  temples.  We  were  especially  fortunate  in 
being  in  Athens  during  a  full  moon,  and  I  shall  never 
forget  how  wonderful  the  Parthenon  looked  in  its  sil- 
very light.  All  its  scars  seemed  to  vanish,  and  it 
seemed  almost  ethereal  in  its  beauty.  Modern  Athens 
is  a  rather  stupid  city,  but  its  pepper-tree-lined  streets 
and  its  fantastic  Greeks  with  their  ballet-like  skirts 
amused  us. 

From  Athens  we  took  ship  to  Constantinople,  that 
wonderful  city.  One  of  the  great  sights  of  the  world  is 
Constantinople  from  the  Bosphorus.  But  when  you 
land,  the  illusion  is  somewhat  dissipated  —  dirty  peo- 
ple, and  dirty  streets,  a  perfect  Babel  of  sound,  and 
people;  horses,  carriages,  and  palanquins,  jostling 
each  other  in  fearful  confusion.    This  is  surely  the 


WINTER  IN  SIENA  219 

East.  We  engaged  a  dragoman  to  see  us  through  the 
custom-house  and  do  the  sights,  and  had  our  first 
glimpse  of  the  corrupt  practices  of  the  East  in  the 
amount  of  baksheesh  we  were  expected  to  hand  over 
to  expedite  matters. 

I  could  not  help  hoping,  as  we  stood  in  Saint  So- 
phia, that  the  Christians  might  soon  again  return  to 
that  noble  temple  which  is  desecrated  by  the  presence 
of  the  Turk  and  the  huge  inscriptions  from  the  Koran 
that  disfigure  the  walls. 

The  bazaars  interested  us  very  much,  and  I  tried 
to  make  a  sketch  in  the  arms  bazaar;  but  the  light  was 
bad,  and  the  crowd  pressed  too  close.  Indeed,  in  my 
efforts  to  sketch  in  the  town  the  interest  of  the  popu- 
lace was  so  great  as  to  make  it  almost  impossible. 
On  one  occasion,  I  had  collected  such  a  crowd  that 
the  dragoman  thought  it  unsafe  for  Mrs.  Longfellow 
to  remain  with  me,  as  the  Turks  are  no  respecters  of 
women,  and  he  took  her  back  to  the  hotel.  I  had  to 
take  my  sketch  through  a  long  lane  of  people,  with 
diflniculty  kept  from  closing  in  entirely.  I  really  did 
not  know  whether  I  should  escape  alive,  but  on  the 
whole  they  were  good-natured  enough;  but  smelly, 
oh,  my! 

We  made  several  excursions  on  the  Bosphorus,  that 
wonderful  strait  with  its  white  villas  and  palaces 
gleaming  amongst  the  green  of  its  shores. 


220  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

We  had  one  rather  exciting  experience.  We  had 
made  a  visit  to  Roberts  College  by  caique,  and  were 
so  hospitably  received  that  it  was  rather  late  when 
we  returned.  We  had  that  day  a  new  dragoman,  a 
brother,  so  he  said,  of  the  one  we  had  engaged  —  a  fa- 
vorite trick  in  the  East  —  and  when  we  reached  the 
pier  at  Constantinople  the  two  villainous-looking  boat- 
men who  had  taken  us  refused  to  be  satisfied  with  the 
money  that  had  been  agreed  upon  for  the  trip.  It  was 
by  this  time  quite  dark,  and  there  we  were  at  the 
mercy  of  these  cut-throats  at  the  end  of  a  long  pier, 
and  they  could  easily  have  robbed  us  and  chucked  us 
into  the  Bosphorus  and  nobody  would  have  been  the 
wiser.  They  got  into  a  tussle  with  the  dragoman,  and 
got  him  down  and  threatened  to  murder  him,  unless 
we  paid  what  they  demanded.  I  felt  sure  it  was  a 
put-up  game  between  him  and  them;  but  I  saw  no 
way  out  but  to  pay,  and  pay  I  did,  and  was  thankful 
to  escape  with  a  whole  skin. 

From  Constantinople  we  took  a  steamer  to  Alexan- 
dria, touching  at  Smyrna  on  the  way.  The  passengers 
were  most  interesting:  a  great  many  Turks  with  their 
whole  families,  on  the  way  to  Mecca.  The  women 
and  children  camped  out  on  the  decks,  while  their 
lords  and  masters  had  comfortable  staterooms. 


CHAPTER  XII 
EGYPT 

The  approach  to  Egypt  is  always  interesting.  The 
first  thing  you  see  is  the  tall  Pharos  of  Alexandria 
rising  out  of  the  sea;  then  the  long,  low  line  of  the 
sandy  shore,  and  the  wonderful  color  of  the  water  on 
the  bar,  like  the  colors  on  a  peacock's  breast. 

In  those  early  days,  before  the  English  occupation, 
there  was  little  restraint  over  the  natives,  and  the 
steamer  was  quickly  surrounded  by  hundreds  of 
boats,  with  howling,  yelling  pirates,  who  as  soon  as 
the  steamer  anchored  came  tumbling  over  the  side  in 
true  piratical  style,  seizing  on  any  pieces  of  baggage 
they  could  lay  their  hands  on,  and  fighting  and  strug- 
gling with  the  owners  and  among  themselves  for  its 
possession.  It  was  a  frightful  scene,  and  we  were 
fortunate  in  having  been  asked  by  the  captain  up  on 
the  bridge  to  escape  the  melee. 

Through  the  struggling  mass  we  presently  per- 
ceived a  gorgeously  dressed  individual  forcing  his 
way,  who  turned  out  to  be  the  dragoman  we  had  writ- 
ten to  from  Paris.  He  had  only  one  eye,  like  the  one- 
eyed  Calender,  but  kissed  our  hands  with  the  grace 
of  a  courtier,  and  with  much  yelling  and  cuffing  extri- 


222  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

cated  us  from  the  pandemonium  and  got  us  into  a  boat, 
and,  with  liberal  supply  of  baksheesh,  through  the  cus- 
tom-house and  into  a  carriage,  and  so  to  the  hotel. 
We  had  truly  entered  a  new  world.  That  first  intro- 
duction to  the  true  East  is  wonderful.  The  kaleido- 
scopic effect  of  the  streets,  with  their  hurrying  crowds 
in  all  sorts  of  costumes,  the  constantly  recurring 
groups  of  people  that  might  have  come  out  of  the 
New  Testament  or  the  Arabian  Nights,  cannot  help 
but  delight  an  artist,  and  why  more  pictures  of  the 
East  are  not  satisfactory  is  hard  to  understand. 

The  ride  to  Cairo  by  train  the  next  day  was  full  of 
interest  and  excitement;  it  was  all  so  new  and  differ- 
ent. The  people  working  in  the  fields,  the  little  mud 
villages,  and  especially  the  camels,  slow-moving  in 
long  strings,  as  they  had  been  for  ages,  and  would  con- 
tinue for  other  ages,  gave  you  somehow  the  feeling  of 
how  little  time  counted  in  this  old,  old  world.  Then 
the  glimpse  of  the  Nile  as  we  crossed  it,  with  its  pic- 
turesque boats  with  pointed  sails,  like  the  wings  of 
birds;  altogether  it  was  a  scene  to  be  remembered. 

We  reached  Cairo  after  dark,  and  I  shall  never  for- 
get that  drive  through  mysterious  streets,  after  we 
had  been  extricated  from  the  usual  bedlam  at  the  sta- 
tion. We  had  selected  a  hotel  more  in  the  centre  of 
the  town  than  the  tourist-ridden  Shepheard's,  as  we 
wished  to  get  if  possible  more  of  the  local  color  of  the 


EGYPT  223 

East,  and  not  be  surrounded  with  hordes  of  cockneys. 

The  Muski  was  in  those  days  much  more  pic- 
turesque than  it  is  now  —  there  were  few  European 
shops  in  it,  and  it  was  covered  over  with  awnings  to 
keep  out  the  sun,  and  with  its  husthng  crowds  it  had  a 
mystery  and  centuries-old  look  that  it  has  now  in  a 
great  measure  lost.  As  we  drove  through  it,  at  night, 
it  was  especially  weird,  with  the  queer  cries  of  the 
coachman  demanding  right  of  way,  and  mysterious 
figures  just  escaping  being  run  over;  grunting  camels 
looming  out  of  the  darkness,  and  passing  on  with 
the  indifferent  and  cynical  expression  that  belongs  to 
them. 

At  last  we  stopped  at  the  mouth  of  a  dark  alley  and 
were  requested  to. descend.  It  was  a  bad-smelling  and 
uninviting  alley,  and  I  was  afraid  we  had  made  a  mis- 
take; it  seemed  like  tempting  fate  to  plunge  down  it. 
However,  Ibrahim,  the  dragoman,  said,  in  his  queer 
English,  that  it  was  all  right,  and  we  ventured.  Sud- 
denly, at  a  turn  of  the  alley  there  burst  on  our  view 
a  gate,  and,  beyond,  a  fairy  garden  lighted  by  lanterns, 
truly  a  scene  from  the  Arabian  Nights,  and  this  was 
the  Hotel  du  Nile,  our  destination.  The  hotel  was 
only  two  stories  high,  and  extended  on  three  sides  of 
the  garden,  the  other  being  enclosed  by  a  high  wall, 
over  which  was  a  view  of  another  garden  with  native 
houses  and  palms  and  a  minaret.  What  could  one  ask 


224  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

more  ?  The  hotel  Is  now  no  more,  I  am  sorry  to  say. 
A  gallery  ran  round  the  garden,  on  which  the  bed- 
rooms gave ;  it  was  covered  with  trailing  vines,  purple 
bougainvlllea  and  others,  and  the  garden  below  was 
gay  with  hibiscus  and  other  strange  flowers. 

As  we  came  out  on  the  balcony,  in  the  morning,  to 
summon  the  waiter  for  our  breakfast  by  clapping  our 
hands  in  Oriental  style,  as  we  had  been  told  to  do,  we 
were  greeted  by  the  delicious  cool  fresh  air  of  the  early 
morning  in  Egypt,  like  one  of  our  October  mornings, 
only  spiced  with  the  mysterious  perfumes  of  the  East. 
Our  clapping  was  answered  by  a  gentleman  in  a  tar- 
boosh, a  nightgown,  and  a  pair  of  slippers,  —  and 
that  seemed  to  be  all,  —  who  was  both  chambermaid 
and  waiter.  There  were  no  women  in  the  hotel;  and 
all  the  waiters  wore  the  same  style  of  nightgowns, 
white  or  pale  blue,  which  Is  so  becoming  to  their  dark 
skins.  Thank  goodness,  there  were  no  swallowtails 
as  there  are  now,  to  modernize  all  the  hotels. 

The  air  In  Egypt  is  of  a  crystalline  purity  and  vi- 
brates with  light.  The  sky,  though  intensely  blue,  is 
soft,  and  not  of  that  steely  blue  of  the  North.  Owing 
to  the  reflection  from  the  yellow  sands  of  the  desert,  it 
takes  on  a  greenish  hue  toward  the  horizon,  and  the 
undersides  of  clouds  also  reflect  the  warm  tone.  It  is 
a  mistake  to  think  that  the  colors  in  the  East  are  vio- 
lent as  so  many  artists  paint  them;  on  the  contrary, 


EGYPT  225 

the  hues  are  soft  and  opaline,  and  even  the  wonderful 
sunsets  are  softer  and  less  crude  than  ours. 

While  waiting  for  our  friends  to  join  us,  we  spent 
our  time  visiting  the  mosques  and  the  bazaars.  The 
bazaars  were  much  more  interesting  in  those  days 
than  now,  and  did  not  have  so  many  Oriental  goods 
made  in  Birmingham.  They  were  of  unending  de- 
light and  interest.  The  quaint  little  cubby-holes 
called  shops,  in  which  sat,  crosslegged,  the  owners, 
ready  like  spiders  to  pounce  on  any  poor  fly  of  a  tour- 
ist passing  by,  the  dim  light  that  filtered  through  the 
awnings,  overhead,  and  the  constant  crowds,  in  all 
sorts  of  picturesque  costumes,  that  pushed  and  jostled 
each  other,  made  constant  pictures  to  delight  the  ar- 
tistic eye. 

After  the  crowd  in  the  bazaars  and  the  dust  and 
hubbub  of  the  Muski,  it  seemed  like  a  haven  of  rest 
to  plunge  down  our  narrow  alley  and  emerge  into  the 
quiet  of  the  hotel  garden,  with  nothing  but  the  cries 
of  the  kites  flying  overhead,  and  the  occasional  voice 
of  the  muezzin,  calling  the  faithful  to  prayer,  which 
came  floating  down  from  the  minaret  of  a  near-by 
mosque.  It  always  reminded  me  of  the  voice  of  a  lark 
quavering  far  up  in  the  blue. 

One  day  we  went  to  inspect  the  dahabiyeh  that  Ib- 
rahim thought  would  do  for  our  party.  It  belonged  to 
an  Englishman,  who  took  us  in  his  own  carriage  with 


226  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

a  fine  pair  of  Arab  horses  to  see  It,  at  Bulak,  a  sub- 
urb of  Cairo.  I  was  disgusted  by  the  way  the  coach- 
man lashed  with  his  whip  the  people  that  did  not  get 
out  of  our  way  quickly  enough;  especially  when  he 
struck  over  the  head  a  native  woman  holding  an  in- 
fant. I  could  not  help  remonstrating  to  the  owner  of 
the  carriage  over  such  brutality,  but  he  only  laughed 
and  said  that  was  the  only  way  to  treat  the  natives — 
"dirty  niggers,"  he  called  them —  if  they  did  not  get 
out  of  the  way.  It  is  such  callousness  on  the  part  of 
Englishmen  in  the  East  that  endears  them  to  the  sub- 
ject peoples! 

As  every  one  knows,  a  dahabiyeh  is  nothing  but  a 
house-boat,  with  a  large  lateen  sail,  and  a  small  jigger 
behind  to  help  steer  it,  a  deck  in  front,  where  the  crew 
lives,  and  arrangements  for  rowing  by  taking  up  part 
of  the  deck  when  necessary.  The  cooking  galley  is 
away  up  forward  in  front  of  the  mast,  and  it  is  in- 
credible what  delicious  meals  can  be  prepared  in  such' 
an  exposed  position. 

The  crew  consists,  according  to  the  size  of  the  boat, 
of  about  twelve  or  fourteen  sailors,  a  captain  or  reisj 
and  an  assistant  rets  or  steersman.  These  are  all  in- 
cluded in  the  price  of  the  boat,  and  they  furnish  their 
own  meals,  consisting  mostly  of  sour  black  bread  and 
beans.  The  dahabiyehs  were  at  that  time  all  gathered 
in  a  long  line  at  Bulak.  Now  they  are  mostly  moored 


EGYPT  227 

along  the  bank  at  the  Gesireh  Island,  just  below  the 
bridge. 

Our  Englishman  owned  two  or  three  boats  which 
he  let  for  the  winter  at  prices  a  little  lower  than  Cook, 
so  we  selected  one  that  we  liked  as  to  the  arrangement 
of  cabins,  etc.,  and  agreed  to  sign  a  contract  as  soon 
as  our  friends  arrived  and  could  look  at  the  boat. 
In  a  day  or  two  they  came,  and  we  inspected  the  boat 
with  them  again  and  arranged  as  to  cabins,  and  signed 
a  contract  for  three  months  for  one  hundred  and 
twenty  pounds  a  month,  before  the  American  Consul; 
also  another  contract  with  the  dragoman  at  a  pound 
a  day  apiece  for  our  own  food,  he  providing  a  good 
cook  and  two  waiters  to  serve  us.  This  made  for  our 
party  of  six  a  little  less  than  two  pounds  apiece  a  day, 
for  all  our  expenses,  including  donkeys  and  donkey 
boys  for  the  excursions,  all  of  which  were  furnished  by 
the  dragoman.  This  did  not  include,  of  course,  any 
baksheesh  that  we  chose  to  give  during  the  trip  or  at 
the  end. 

It  took  about  a  week  for  the  dragoman  to  lay  in 
provisions,  after  submitting  a  list  for  our  approval. 
The  wine  we  ordered  we  were  to  pay  for  ourselves; 
any  that  was  left  over  to  be  returned  to  the  merchant. 
We  found,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  that  owing  to  the  dry- 
ness of  the  climate  we  did  not  care  much  for  wine,  and 
returned  the  greater  part  of  it. 


228  RANDOM  MEMORIES  '^ 

At  last  came  the  day  when  all  was  ready  and  we 
were  to  start.  We  discovered  later  that,  as  we  were  to 
pay  extra  for  each  day  over  the  three  months  of  the 
contract,  it  was  to  the  interest  of  the  owner  of  the 
boat,  and  of  the  dragoman,  to  make  our  voyage  last 
as  long  as  possible,  and  all  sorts  of  expedients  for  delay 
were  invented.  It  became  a  constant  battle  between 
us,  we  urging  the  reis  to  push  on,  they  holding  back 
on  any  pretence. 

So  it  was  at  the  start;  we  should  have  started  above 
the  bridge,  and  so  saved  a  day,  but  we  had  not  yet 
learned  our  lesson.  We  could  pass  the  bridge  only  at 
a  certain  hour,  along  with  a  lot  of  native  boats,  when 
the  draw  was  opened.  When  that  happened,  all  the 
boats  tried  to  go  through  at  once  and  there  was  a 
great  jam,  accompanied  by  much  yelling  and  howl- 
ing. Our  big  boat  seemed  to  get  stuck  for  a  moment 
in  the  draw,  and  to  our  astonishment  one  of  our  sail- 
ors stripped  off  his  clothing  and  plunged  into  the 
river,  stark  naked,  to  carry  a  rope.  We  thought  that 
a  little  strong  with  ladies  looking  on,  and  remonstrated 
with  Ibrahim.  He  said  that  we  must  buy  drawers  for 
the  men  then,  and  there  was  another  day's  delay  to 
do  that.  I  discovered  later  that  they  all  had  them,  and 
that  it  was  another  excuse  for  delay  and  to  furnish  a 
little  baksheesh.  Such  are  the  ways  of  the  Egyptians; 
it  is  not  they  always  that  are  despoiled. 


EGYPT  229 

The  prevailing  winds  In  the  winter  on  the  Nile  are 
from  the  north ;  otherwise  it  would  be  difficult,  indeed, 
to  make  headway  against  the  current,  which  runs 
nearly  three  miles  an  hour.  This  wind  will  last  a 
week  or  ten  days  at  a  time,  and  then  die  down  and  a 
calm  ensue,  or  a  light  wind  come  from  the  south, 
against  which  it  is  impossible  to  proceed  without 
"tracking,"  which  means  sending  all  the  crew  on 
shore  with  a  rope  to  tow  the  boat.  This  naturally  is 
very  hard  work,  and  cannot  be  done  if  the  south 
wind  is  at  all  strong.  At  best  only  a  few  miles  a  day 
can  be  made,  whereas  with  a  strong  north  wind  you 
can  sail  as  much  as  twenty  or  thirty  miles  in  the  day. 
As  the  wind  usually  dies  down  at  sunset,  it  is  cus- 
tomary to  tie  up  to  the  bank  at  that  time.  Sometimes 
when  the  moon  is  full  and  gives  plenty  of  light,  and 
the  wind  holds,  one  can  sail  well  into  the  night,  but 
the  men  hate  to  do  it,  as  it  shortens  the  voyage,  and 
in  some  places  is  dangerous  owing  to  sudden  squalls 
coming  down  off  the  high  cliffs.  The  year  before  we 
were  there  a  dahablyeh  had  been  upset  and  two 
young  ladies  drowned  while  passing  a  dangerous  bit 
of  the  river,  because  they  with  their  brother  were 
hurrying  to  overtake  another  boat,  and  were  sailing 
at  night.  The  brother,  who  was  on  deck,  and  the 
crew  were  saved. 

Finally  in  spite  of  delays  we  got  off.  The  great  sail 


230  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

was  loosened,  and  slowly  and  majestically  we  pointed 
our  bow  up  the  river.  Nothing  can  be  more  delicious 
than  that  smooth  movement  in  calm  waters,  gliding 
between  banks  lined  with  palm  trees,  with  an  occa- 
sional mud  village,  and  the  constant  interest  of  the  life 
on  shore;  men  working  in  the  fields  or  trotting  along 
the  raised  bank,  or  donkeys  or  camels  rhythmically 
swaying  as  they  follow  each  other  in  long  lines ;  but 
above  all,  the  blue-clad  women  with  their  earthen 
jars  poised  on  their  heads,  coming  down  to  the  river 
to  get  water.  Clad  in  their  long  straight  garments 
showing  their  slender  forms,  the  Egyptian  women  are 
wonderfully  graceful,  and  the  carrying  of  heavy  jars 
of  water  on  their  heads,  even  from  childhood,  gives 
them  a  superb  carriage.  The  management  of  the  boat, 
so  different  from  deep-sea  sailing,  was  full  of  interest. 
At  first  all  the  sailors  looked  alike  to  us,  like  "Ceesar 
and  Pompey,  very  much  alike,  especially  Pompey," 
but  in  a  few  days  we  began  to  differentiate  them  and 
soon  knew  them  by  name  and  had  our  favorites. 

The  Nile  is  a  very  muddy,  shallow  stream  full  of 
sandbars,  and  requires  very  skilful  navigation.  The 
captain,  or  reis,  always  sat  at  the  top  of  the  stairs 
leading  from  the  lower  deck  to  the  one  above,  over 
our  cabins.  From  this  vantage-ground,  he  conned  the 
boat,  giving  directions  to  the  steersman  who  wielded 
the  long  tiller  at  the  stern. 


EGYPT  231 

In  going  up  the  river,  it  Is  necessary  to  keep  out  of 
the  strongest  current  and  to  take  advantage  of  any 
back  eddies,  and  keep,  therefore,  in  the  shallow  water, 
being  careful,  however,  not  to  run  aground  on  any  of 
the  shoals.  It  will  be  seen  that  this  is  not  an  easy  job, 
as  the  captain  has  nothing  to  guide  him  except  a 
knowledge  of  the  river  and  the  surface  Indications  or 
ripples  on  the  water.  As  the  sandbars  are  constantly 
changing,  it  is  quite  marvellous  how  he  does  it.  The 
dahabiyehs  draw  only  about  three  or  three  and  a  half 
feet  of  water,  in  spite  of  which,  with  all  care,  espe- 
cially if  the  river  is  low,  they  often  do  run  aground. 
Then  comes  the  great  task  of  finding  the  proper  chan- 
nel and  getting  the  boat  off.  Most  of  the  men  have  to 
get  overboard  and,  putting  their  shoulders  under  her 
sides,  with  many  grunts  and  heaves  work  her  free. 
Going  up  the  river  the  current  helps  to  get  the  boat 
off,  but  coming  down,  it  only  pushes  her  on  harder.  I 
have  known  the  steamboats  to  remain  stuck  for  a 
week.  The  only  way  then  is  to  get  out  an  anchor  and 
pull  her  off  by  main  force. 

Our  first  day,  as  we  started  late  owing  to  last  things 
that  were  conveniently  forgotten  by  the  dragoman, 
we  only  reached  Bedrashen,  where  one  starts  for  the 
expedition  to  Sakkara.  It  is  important  always  to 
stop  near  a  village  at  night,  so  as  to  get  fresh  milk, 
eggs,  etc.,  and  also  to  get  a  guard,  generally  two  men 


232  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

with  sticks,  who  squat  on  the  bank  all  night  to 
keep  off  thieves. 

As  we  draw  up  to  the  bank,  the  great  sail  is  furled 
by  the  men  swarming  up  the  tall  yard.  With  their 
arms  and  kicking  feet  they  gather  the  sail  to  the  yard 
and  by  an  ingenious  knot  fasten  it,  so  that  with  one 
pull  of  a  long  guiding  rope  the  whole  sail  is  loosened 
at  once  when  they  wish  to  unfurl  it.  The  men  always 
chant  a  weird  song  as  they  take  the  sail  in,  and  it  is 
one  of  the  picturesque  events  of  the  day. 

We  generally  drew  up  to  the  bank  to  have  a  walk 
on  shore  before  dark,  and  then  sat  on  deck  to  enjoy 
the  wonderful  sunsets  and  afterglow,  and  still  more 
the  moonlight  nights  or  the  stars,  which  seem 
brighter  in  this  clear  atmosphere  than  farther  north. 

After  the  second  day  from  Cairo  the  wind  fell  flat, 
and  the  men  had  to  go  on  shore  and  pull  the  boat  with 
a  long  rope  or  "track,"  as  it  is  called:  a  tedious  proc- 
ess for  all  concerned.  Without  the  wind  the  after- 
noons are  very  hot,  and  the  flies,  the  greatest  plague 
in  Egypt,  have  a  fine  opportunity  to  make  themselves 
a  nuisance.  The  Egyptian  fly  is  an  unmitigated  devil; 
he  is  most  persistent  and  sticky  and  makes  a  spe- 
cialty of  getting  in  your  eyes  or  up  your  nose.  He  is 
the  spreader  of  ophthalmia,  which  afflicts  so  many  of 
the  people,  and  is  really  dangerous  on  that  account. 
The  natives  have  a  superstition  against  brushing 


EGYPT  235 

them  off,  and  you  see  the  children's  eyes  especially 
black  with  clusters  of  them;  no  wonder  there  are  so 
many  blind  people  in  Egypt. 

The  river  for  many  miles  above  Cairo  is  rather  flat 
and  uninteresting.  With  the  desert  on  one  side  and 
cultivated  fields  on  the  other,  this  part  of  the  river  is 
apt  to  have  little  wind,  so  that  it  is  really  better  to 
begin  the  voyage  farther  up,  at  Minieh.  We  did  not 
know  this,  and  had  ten  days  of  weary  tracking,  mak- 
ing little  progress  each  day.  Finally  the  north  wind 
came  again,  and  joyfully  the  great  sail  filled,  and  we 
swept  along  at  a  great  rate.  Beyond  Minieh  begin  the 
beautiful  limestone  cliffs  which  add  so  much  to  the 
pleasure  and  excitement  of  the  voyage. 

At  some  places  you  have  to  sail  close  under  these 
cliffs  and  here  it  is  dangerous  at  night,  as  wandering 
gusts  of  wind  are  apt  to  come  rushing  down  with- 
out showing  at  all  on  the  surface  of  the  water.  The 
sheet  of  the  great  sail  must  never  be  fastened,  but  held 
by  a  man  with  a  turn  round  a  bitt,  so  as  to  let  it  run 
if  the  boat  should  tip  too  much,  because,  being  so 
flat-bottomed  and  shallow,  the  boat  is  easily  over- 
turned, especially  as  the  current  runs  very  strong 
under  these  cliffs  and  may  easily  help  to  upset  her. 

There  are  also  many  native  boats  that  get  in  the 
way,  and  therefore  there  is  much  yelling  and  swear- 
ing and  many  exciting  episodes.   Altogether  the  life 


234  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

on  a  dahabiyeh  Is  full  of  interest,  and  seldom  dull  ex- 
cept when  tracking,  and  even  then  there  is  the  life 
on  shore  passing  like  a  panorama  constantly  before 
you.  What  can  be  pleasanter  than  to  sit  and  do  noth- 
ing and  at  the  same  time  have  constant  change  of 
scene?  Those  beautiful  cliffs  on  the  Nile,  with  their 
changing  colors,  reaching  to  bright  crimson  some- 
times, in  the  setting  sun,  are  a  never-ending  delight. 
They  are  flat  on  top  forming  a  tableland,  through 
which  the  Nile  in  countless  ages  has  cut  its  bed.  The 
limestone  is  full  of  fossil  shells,  and  this  immense  de- 
posit of  limestone,  several  hundred  feet  in  thickness, 
must  once  have  formed  the  bottom  of  a  sea  whose  myr- 
iads of  shells  have  formed  layer  on  layer  by  slow  ac- 
cumulation this  wonderful  product  of  nature. 

Truly  man  is  but  a  small  speck  on  this  marvellous 
world,  and  his  brief  life  is  nothing  to  the  ages  that 
have  gone  to  the  making  of  it.  In  Egypt  one  is  more 
impressed  with  the  antiquity  of  the  world  than  in  any 
other  country.  We  have  here  the  ancient  temples  and 
other  vestiges  of  a  civilization  that  flourished  many 
thousands  of  years  ago.  And  must  our  own  boasted 
civilization  pass  in  the  same  way?  Who  knows?  At 
least  it  seems  probable,  and  some  later  antiquarian 
will  easily  prove  that  the  inhabitants  of  New  York 
lived  underground,  else  why  these  deep  excavations 
and  mysterious  tunnels  running  everywhere? 


EGYPT  235 

On  one  of  those  limestone  cliffs  is  perched  a  Coptic 
monastery,  and  as  we  passed,  one  of  the  monks  swam 
out  to  our  boat  for  alms.  As  he  was  quite  naked,  he 
had  to  be  given  some  clothes  before  he  could  present 
himself  before  the  ladies.  The  Copts  are  the  direct 
descendants  of  the  early  Christians  and  their  form 
of  Christianity  probably  more  closely  resembles  the 
teaching  of  Christ  than  any  other.  Our  sailors,  all 
Mahometans,  treated  this  poor  Copt  with  much  scorn. 

A  little  farther  along  we  came  to  a  very  small  island 
or  sandbar,  on  which  sat  an  old  man  with  nothing  on 
but  a  loincloth.  "Him  very  holy  man,"  the  dragoman 
said,  and  food  was  sent  to  him  by  boat.  It  appeared 
that  he  had  sat  there  for  years,  and  depended  on  pass- 
ing boats  to  feed  him.  So  it  only  depends  on  the  point 
of  view,  which  is  worthy,  and  which  is  not.  To  be- 
come a  holy  man,  all  that  is  necessary  in  the  East  is  to 
take  off  your  clothes,  be  very  dirty,  do  nothing,  and 
expect  others  to  feed  you.  I  must  confess  my  rever- 
ence for  the  prophets  was  greatly  shaken  by  coming 
in  contact  with  the  modern  article.  I  wonder  if  Eli- 
jah, when  he  was  fed  by  ravens,  was  as  old  and  dirty 
as  the  gentleman  on  the  sandbank. 

It  took  us  three  weeks,  sailing  and  tracking,  to 
reach  Luxor;  stopping  for  a  day  at  Dendera  to  visit 
our  first  temple.  The  temple  smelled  of  bats,  and  be- 
ing partly  buried  In  sand  was  not  as  impressive  as  I 


236  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

had  expected,  though  the  colors  on  the.  columns  were 
wonderfully  preserved. 

At  Luxor  we  spent  a  couple  of  weeks,  visiting  Kar- 
nak  and  the  temples  on  the  other  side  of  the  river. 
From  Luxor  the  view  of  the  hills  opposite  is  one  of 
surpassing  beauty.  The  ever-changing  colors  of  those 
limestone  mountains,  from  early  morning,  when 
they  seem  to  float  in  a  pearly  mist,  to  the  late  after- 
noon, when  they  become  almost  crimson  in  the  rays 
of  the  setting  sun,  are  a  constant  delight. 

Kamak  with  its  mighty  columns  we  found  most 
impressive,  especially  by  moonlight,  when  it  seemed 
like  wandering  through  some  gigantic  forest.  In  after 
years,  coming  from  the  sky-scrapers  of  New  York,  I 
was  surprised  to  find  how  values  had  changed,  and 
these  columns  no  longer  seemed  so  wonderful  in  their 
height. 

At  the  time  of  our  visit  the  temple  of  Luxor  had  not 
been  excavated  and  was  buried  deep  in  sand,  with 
mud  houses  built  above  it.  We  were  fortunate  in 
reaching  Luxor  just  in  time  for  Christmas,  and  our 
dragoman  had  the  dahablyeh  decorated  with  palm 
branches  for  the  occasion.  A  neighboring  dragoman 
had  procured  some  branches  of  orange  trees  with 
oranges  on  them,  which  distressed  our  dragoman,  to 
think  that  he  had  been  outdone,  till  he  had  the  happy 
thought  of  tying  oranges   on   his   palm  branches. 


EGYPT  237 

when  he  was  happy  again.  We  had  a  wonderful 
Christmas  dinner  with  all  sorts  of  marvellous  dishes, 
showing  oif  the  capabilities  of  our  cook,  who,  so  he 
said,  had  once  been  cook  to  the  Shah  of  Persia. 

The  climate  of  Luxor  is  the  best  in  Egypt.  At  Cairo 
and  for  some  distance  above,  the  nights  in  December 
are  quite  cold,  owing  to  the  rapid  evaporation,  some- 
times as  low  as  40°  F.,  but  at  Luxor  the  difference  be- 
tween night  and  day  is  not  so  excessive.  In  February, 
however,  it  begins  to  be  too  warm.  Assuan,  which 
some  people  like,  is  excessively  dry;  being  surrounded 
by  desert,  it  is  also  very  hot.  Doctors  think  it  is  good 
—  if  you  don't  die,  one  might  add. 

In  those  early  days,  Assuan  had  no  big  hotels  or 
nervous  patients,  but  was  quite  a  primitive  village 
with  interesting  bazaars  where  one  could  buy  things 
from  London  and  "Madam  Nubias,"  a  girdle  or 
apron  of  leather  strips  and  beads,  the  sole  garment 
of  the  ladies  of  the  Upper  Nile.  I  might  add  also  that 
they  wear  a  coating  of  castor  oil  that  would  keep  most 
people  at  a  safe  distance,  and  that  enables  you  to 
smell  a  village  a  mile  off. 

At  Assuan,  you  are  at  the  foot  of  the  First  Cata- 
ract, and  get  your  first  sight  of  the  orange  sand  of  Nu- 
bia, flowing  down  over  its  black  basalt  rocks.  Here 
also  came  the  excitement  of  being  pulled  up  the  cata- 
ract by  hundreds  of  white-clad  natives,  led  by  a  chief 


238  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

who  reminded  me  of  a  cheer  leader  in  college  games. 

There  was  no  dam  then  and  boats  had  to  be  pulled 
up  the  rapids  in  the  side  eddies  to  avoid  the  full  force 
of  the  current.  It- took  us  three  days  to  make  the  as- 
cent, because,  after  two  or  three  hours  of  pulling  and 
hauling  with  many  ropes  out,  and  much  excitement 
and  yelling,  the  crowd  would  quit  for  the  day,  and  de- 
mand more  baksheesh  if  they  were  to  go  on  again  the 
next. 

These  natives  of  the  Cataract  are  a  fine-looking 
race,  with  regular  features,  almost  black  skins,  and 
slender,  athletic  figures.  Some  of  the  chiefs  were  su- 
perbly handsome  in  their  white  flowing  garments.  All 
the  men  are  wonderful  swimmers  and  play  about  in 
the  rapids  like  frogs.  For  a  consideration  a  dozen  of 
them,  with  a  short  log  under  their  chests,  went  down 
the  grand  rapid  for  our  benefit.  It  is  really  a  danger- 
ous sport,  and  Englishmen  who  thought  they  were 
good  swimmers  have  lost  their  lives  in  attempting  it. 

At  last  we  were  pulled  out  into  the  smooth  water 
above  the  falls,  and  wendcjd  our  way,  amid  huge 
rounded  polished  rocks,  to  the  beautiful  island  of 
Philse,  with  its  palms  and  temples;  not  as  now  buried 
half  the  year  up  to  its  waist,  so  to  speak,  with  all  its 
palms  dead  and  its  beauty  gone  — •  all  to  make  a  few 
pounds  for  speculators  in  the  Nile  delta,  but  of  that 
later. 


SKETCHES  MADE  ON  THE  NILE 


EGYPT  239 

After  a  few  days  enjoying  the  temple  and  making 
sketches,  we  hurried  on  to  Abu  Simbel,  as  there  is  lit- 
tle to  see  above  Philse,  and  the  scenery  is  not  so  inter- 
esting as  below.  Abu  Simbel  Is  a  rock-cut  temple 
with  four  gigantic  statues  guarding  its  entrance.  It  is 
worth  coming  far  to  see.  I  was  struck  by  the  almost 
exact  likeness  of  these  statues  to  one  of  our  sailors, 
showing  how  the  type  had  survived.  There  is  a  great 
slope  of  orange  sand  outside  the  temple,  leading  to  the 
desert  above,  where  my  wife  used  to  bury  herself  in 
the  hot  sand,  which  quite  finished  her  cure  of  the 
rheumatism.  On  the  top,  the  desert  stretched  away 
for  miles  of  undulating  surface,  broken  with  ledges  of 
rock  and  here  and  there  conical  mounds  or  tumuli  that 
reminded  one  of  the  pyramids  on  the  lower  part  of 
the  river,  and  I  wondered  if  the  much-discussed  origin 
of  the  pyramids  was  not  here  solved,  and  if  the  in- 
habitants of  these  parts  on  descending  the  river  might 
not  have  set  up,  in  lands  that  were  flat,  the  pyramids 
as  a  reminder  of  these  home  mounds. 

We  remained  at  Abu  Simbel  several  days  rather  than 
spend  the  time  going  up  to  Wady  Haifa,  where  our 
course  would  be  barred  by  the  Second  Cataract.  The 
time  was  occupied  by  the  crew  in  getting  the  daha- 
biyeh  ready  for  the  descent  of  the  river;  that  is,  taking 
down  the  great  yard  with  its  sail  and  stretching  it 
lengthwise  above  our  heads,  and  putting  the  small 


240  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

after  sail  or  jigger  on  the  mast  in  its  stead.  This  is  be- 
cause it  is  impossible  to  sail  down  the  river  with  the 
big  sail,  as,  with  all  the  view  shut,  it  would  be  impos- 
sible, running  with  the  current,  to  steer  the  boat;  and 
all  the  windows  have  to  be  shut  tight,  and  the  grit 
gets  into  your  mouth  and  food,  and  makes  you  think 
life  not  worth  living.  In  spite  of  all  these  thorns,  in- 
cluding the  flies,  a  winter  on  the  Nile  is  the  most  won- 
derful experience;  that  is,  if  you  are  not  in  a  hurry. 
People  who  are  always  in  a  hurry  hate  it,  also  those 
who  live  solely  for  society.  We  met  one  party  who 
were  thus  disappointed;  they  had  been  told  you  met 
such  charming  people  on  the  Nile,  and  they  had  met 
nobody  and  were  evidently  tired  to  death  of  each 
other.  You  have  to  be  very  sure  of  your  companions, 
shut  up  as  you  are  for  two  or  three  months  in  a  small 
boat,  with  perhaps  divergent  views  as  to  what  to  do, 
or  what  excursions  to  make.  Many  people  quarrel 
under  these  conditions;  they  don't  speak  to  each 
other,  and  almost  invariably  go  to  different  hotels 
when  they  get  back  to  Cairo.  I  am  happy  to  say  this 
did  not  happen  to  us,  though  there  were  moments 
when  friction  threatened,  and  people  were  surprised 
to  find  us  as  fond  of  each  other  as  ever,  and  staying 
again  at  the  same  hotel. 

Finding  we  were  going  to  have  plenty  of  time,  we 
stayed  two  weeks  at  Philse,  on  the  way  down,  and 


EGYPT  241 

thoroughly  enjoyed  it.  There  were  some  dear  little 
children,  a  boy  and  girl  about  six  or  seven,  who  used 
to  swim  out  to  the  island  from  the  mainland  every 
day  quite  naked,  with  their  clothes  in  a  bundle  on 
their  heads,  and  they  would  then  attach  themselves 
to  us  as  we  sketched,  and  partake  of  our  lunch. 
They  were  friendly  little  beggars,  and  we  got  quite 
fond  of  them. 

On  the  way  down  to  Luxor,  we  visited  some  of  the 
temples,  like  Kom  Ombo  and  Edfu,  that  we  had  passed 
with  longing  eyes  on  the  way  up.  Edfu  especially 
charmed  us,  it  being  more  complete  than  most  of  the 
others,  and  we  passed  one  never-to-be-forgotten  eve- 
ning there,  with  a  glorious  full  moon.  I  leave  the  de- 
scription of  these  wonderful  ruins  to  the  many  books 
on  the  Nile.  To  me  it  was  the  whole  life  that  was  so 
charming,  the  wonderful  sunsets,  the  mysterious  after- 
glow, the  stars  at  night  so  bright  and  palpitating,  and 
the  ever-changing  life  on  the  river.  The  Duke  of  Ar- 
gyll, whom  I  met  once  at  Cairo,  said  he  did  not  enjoy 
it,  it  was  all  tombs,  which  made  his  wife,  Princess 
Louise,  laugh  delightedly. 

We  spent  several  days  again  at  Luxor,  visiting 
again  Karnak  and  the  temples  on  the  other  side  of  the 
river,  and  made  a  very  hot  and  tiring  journey  on  don- 
keys to  the  valley  of  the  tombs  of  the  kings.  I  may 
say  that  in  those  days  all  the  excursions  were  made  on 


242  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

donkeys;  now  you  drive  out  to  Karnak  and  even  to 
the  tombs  of  the  kings   in  carriages.    The   tombs,  ■ 
even,  are  lighted  by  electricity,  and,  you  are  almost 
tempted  to  add,  have  all  the  comforts  of  home. 

Gradually  we  worked  our  way  down  to  Cairo,  and 
our  wonderful  three  months  were  over !  Never  have  I 
enjoyed  a  winter  so  much.  We  had  kept  the  pyra- 
mids for  our  return  to  Cairo,  because,  that  year 
there  was  an  unusually  high  Nile,  and  the  plain  was 
still  flooded  right  up  to  the  pyramids,  and  part  of 
the  causeway  leading  to  them  had  been  carried  away, 
so  that  it  was  impossible  to  drive  there;  even  in 
March  we  had  to  be  ferried  across  the  gap  on  a  flat- 
boat.  There  was  no  Mena  House  there  then,  so  we 
carried  our  own  lunch.  Of  course,  we  thought  it 
necessary  to  climb  the  pyramid.  I,  being  in  good 
training,  from  the  previous  summer  in  Switzerland, 
disdained  the  help  of  the  Arabs,  much  to  their 
disgust,  and  even  carried  a  sun  umbrella  over  my 
head  to  keep  off  the  sun.  Arabs  who  remained  below 
with  my  wife  assured  her  that  the  last  person  who  at- 
tempted the  ascent  with  an  umbrella  had  been  blown 
off,  in  spite  of  which  evil  prophecy  and  the  size  of  the 
blocks  of  stone,  which  are  about  the  height  of  a  table, 
I  reached  the  top  in  twenty  minutes.  There  I  en- 
countered a  gentleman  who  said  he  was  Mark  Twain's 
Arab,  and  offered  for  a  certain  sum,  which  I  have  for- 


EGYPT  243 

gotten,  to  descend  the  pyramid,  cross  the  space  to 
the  pointed  pyramid,  and  reach  the  top  of  that  in 
twelve  minutes.  So  I  held  the  watch  on  him  while  he 
made  his  reckless  descent,  jumping  from  stone  to 
stone  in  his  wild  flight.  Why  he  was  not  killed  or 
tripped  up  by  his  flying  garments,  I  do  not  under- 
stand, but  he  reached  his  goal  with  a  minute  to  spare, 
and  was  rewarded  to  his  satisfaction  on  his  return. 
We  then  visited  the  Sphinx,  some  of  us  on  foot  and 
some  on  donkeys. 

Why  the  Sphinx  has  been  given  the  feminine  gen- 
der I  cannot  understand ;  the  head  is  obviously  that  of 
a  man,  and  an  Ethiopian  at  that.  It  was  probably 
suggested  by  some  cumulus  projecting  above  the  sand 
that  looked  like  a  man's  head.  The  cheeks  still  retain 
some  of  the  red  coloring,  as  also  the  headdress  with 
blue  and  red  stripes  on  it.  The  headdress  was  that  of 
a  king.  The  tall  part  of  the  headdress,  which  was  set 
into  a  depression  in  the  top  of  the  Sphinx  as  it  is  now, 
was  recently  discovered,  buried  in  the  sand,  not  far 
distant. 

To  make  it  more  like  a  Sphinx  paws  were  con- 
structed out  of  stone,  reaching  out  in  front  of  the 
figure.  Between  these  paws  was  situated  a  temple  or 
shrine.  The  paws,  by  the  way,  are  quite  out  of  scale 
with  the  size  of  the  head.  When  we  saw  it  at  that  time 
the  Sphinx  was  buried  in  the  sand  up  to  the  neck. 


244  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

The  sand  Is  always  drifting,  and  has  to  be  continually 
dug  out.  A  curious  effect  of  this  drifting  sand  is  that 
it  has  cut  away  the  neck  till  it  is  much  smaller  than  it 
was  originally. 

I  failed  to  see  any  of  the  mysterious  smile  so  much 
talked  about,  but  in  the  evening,  by  moonlight,  when 
all  the  defects  are  hidden,  the  massive  head  gazing 
out  over  the  valley  of  the  Nile  is  tremendously  im- 
pressive. Unfortunately,  the  hordes  of  laughing, 
chattering  tourists  generally  arrive  to  spoil  the  ro- 
mance. 

A  thing  that  interested  me  very  much  In  Egypt 
was  the  Mohammedan  religion.  It  seemed  to  enter 
so  much  more  into  the  life  of  the  people  than  the 
Christian  religion  does  with  us.  How  much  more 
beautiful  the  call  to  prayer  by  the  muezzin  from  his 
lofty  minaret,  his  quavering  voice  floating  over  the 
busy  city,  than  the  harsh  clangor  of  some  persistent 
bell  that  too  often  summons  the  Christian  to  his  de- 
votions. 

Our  sailors  said  their  prayers  regularly  morning 
and  night,  and  sometimes  between,  without  any 
shame  at  doing  it  in  public,  but  as  a  matter  of  course, 
taking  the  greatest  care  to  face  in  the  supposed  di- 
rection of  Mecca.  We  had  one  sailor  who  was  not 
really  a  sailor,  but  lured  from  a  cafe  to  do  the  singing 
for  the  crew.  He  sung  In  a  high  nasal  quaver,  and  at 


EGYPT  245 

the  end  of  each  stanza  all  the  crew  would  come  In  as  a 
chorus  with  a  long-drawn  Ah!  I  asked  what  his  songs 
were  about,  and  was  told  by  the  dragoman  that  they 
were  love  songs  and  not  proper  to  be  translated.  I 
mention  him  particularly  because  he  was  always  say- 
ing his  prayers  at  all  sorts  of  odd  moments,  perhaps 
to  make  up  for  his  scandalous  songs. 

He  especially  became  very  devout  when  there  was 
need  of  all  hands  to  pull  a  rope  or  shove  us  off  a  sand- 
bank, but  nobody  took  any  notice  of  him  or  cursed 
him  for  shirking  as  would  have  happened  in  any 
Christian  land.  Nobody  must  ever  interfere  with  a 
Mussulman's  prayers ;  or  even  pass  in  front  of  him,  or 
cast  his  shadow  upon  him,  when  he  is  engaged  in  his 
devotions. 

Of  course  there  is  a  good  deal  of  fanaticism  in  their 
religion,  but  perhaps  not  more  than  used  to  be  dis- 
played in  Christian  countries.  I  remember  being  made 
very  angry,  when  we  visited  the  mosque  of  El  Azar, 
or  University,  at  two  of  the  students  turning  round 
and  spitting  in  the  direction  of  the  ladies  of  our  party. 
Of  course  it  would  not  have  been  safe  to  take  any  no- 
tice of  such  a  thing,  but  it  was  not  pleasant. 

We  were  fortunate  in  seeing  in  Cairo  the  Doce,  the 
semi-religious,  semi-barbaric  festival,  when  a  sheik 
on  horseback  rides  over  the  prostrate  bodies  of  fanati- 
cal dervishes.  The  ceremony  took  place  in  a  vacant 


246  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

lot,  on  two  sides  of  which  were  booths  of  a  sort  of  a 
fair,  where,  besides  things  to  sell,  the  howling  and 
whirling  dervishes  performed  to  attract  crowds.  We 
had  very  good  seats  on  top  of  one  of  these  booths, 
well  out  of  reach  of  the  motley  throng  that  surged 
below. 

A  hundred  or  more  dervishes  lay  face  down  In  a 
long  line,  head  to  foot,  and  as  close  together  as  pos- 
sible, as,  if  the  horse  should  step  between  them,  they 
might  have  their  ribs  broken.  It  was  intensely  hot 
and  the  friends  of  the  dervishes  in  many  instances 
stood  at  their  heads  with  fans  to  keep  them  from  faint- 
ing and  to  encourage  them.  Presently  at  the  other 
end  of  the  line  we  saw  the  sheik  all  in  white  mounted 
on  a  beautiful  full-blooded  white  Arab.  The  sheik 
was  very  fat  and  evidently  under  the  influence  of 
hashish,  as  he  reeled  in  his  saddle  and  had  to  be  sup- 
ported by  a  dervish  on  each  side  while  another  led  the 
horse.  The  horse  had  had  his  shoes  removed  and  I 
noticed  was  very  reluctant  to  tread  on  the  prostrate 
forms  before  him.  Some  of  the  dervishes  got  up  and 
walked  off  unconcernedly  after  the  horse  and  his  rider 
had  passed  over  them,  showing  they  were  none  the 
worse;  others  had  to  be  helped  up  by  their  friends,  as 
if  they  were  in  a  trance ;  while  still  others  rose  up 
writhing  and  throwing  their  arms  about,  as  if  in  si:rf- 
fering,  but  I  really  think  it  was  more  religious  frenzy 


EGYPT  247 

than  anything  else.  Some  may  have  been  really  hurt, 
but  all  were  able  to  walk  away,  if  not  alone,  with  the 
help  of  friends.  This  festival  was  supposed  to  be  so 
cruel  that  it  was  suppressed  two  years  later.  I  am 
sure  more  men  are  hurt  in  a  football  scrimmage  than 
occurred  when  we  saw  it. 

The  Assuan  dam  does  not  properly  come  into  this 
narrative,  as  it  was  not  built  till  many  years  later,  but 
I  cannot  help  saying  a  few  words  about  it,  as  1  was 
much  interested  in  its  construction  from  an  engineer's 
point  of  view.  I  have  been  in  Egypt  many  times  since 
this  first  visit  in  1878-79,  perhaps  twelve  or  fourteen 
times,  and  have  seen  the  dam  while  under  construction 
and  several  times  since  its  completion. 

Knowing  the  Nile  as  I  do,  I  could  not  see,  taking 
Into  account  the  width  and  depth  of  the  channel,  how 
any  amount  of  water  let  out  gradually  from  the  dam 
in  the  spring  and  summer  could  benefit  the  land  above 
Cairo.  It  is  only  in  the  delta,  where  like  all  deltas  the 
land  on  either  side  of  the  river  is  apt  to  be  lower  than 
the  bed  of  the  river,  that  side  canals  could  develop 
new  land  and  utilize  the  held-back  water.  Indeed,  I 
think  this  was  proved  by  the  necessity  of  building  a 
supplementary  dam  at  Assiut  to  furnish  water  to  a 
canal  leading  off  to  the  west,  but  which  I  noticed  had 
hardly  any  water  in  it  by  the  first  of  March.  How 
much  good  it  did  later  I  do  not  know. 


.  248  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

On  one  of  my  visits  to  the  great  dam  I  noticed  that 
there  was  an  excessive  seepage  at  the  western  end. 
This  is  always  a  danger  signal,  and  I  learned  that  in  the 
rush  of  water  from  the  sluices  the  rather  soft  stone  on 
which  the  dam  was  built  had  been  gullied  out  and  the 
dam  at  this  point  had  gone  out  several  inches.  They 
were  obliged  to  build  what  is  called  an  "apron"  dam, 
below  the  big  dam,  to  correct  this. 

I  have  seen  it  stated  in  print  that  the  actual  cost 
of  the  dam  has  never  been  made  public,  much  less  the 
balance  sheet  as  to  whether  it  has  ever  paid  interest 
on  the  cost.  That  it  has  not  been  perfectly  successful 
is  proven  by  their  finding  it  necessary  to  raise  the 
dam  nine  feet,  to  get  enough  water  to  extend  the  ir- 
rigated land  in  the  delta.  It  is  impossible  to  get  in- 
formation from  English  officials;  they  shut  up  like 
clams  when  any  outsider  tries  to  find  out  anything. 
Everything  Englishmen  do  must  be  perfect  in  their 
eyes,  and  always  with  the  most  philanthropic  ob- 
ject. The  English  always  remind  me  of  little  "Jack 
Homer,"  who 


"  sat  in  a  corner 


Eating  a  Christmas  pie. 

He  put  in  his  thumb  and  pulled  out  a  plum, 

And  said,  '  What  a  good  boy  am  L' " 

It  is  a  rather  significant  fact  that  the  man  who 
furnished  the  money  to  build  the  dam,  —  Sir  Ernest 


EGYPT  249 

Cassel,  —  doubtless  at  a  good  rate  of  interest,  was 
also  the  man  who  in  connection  with  a  Cairo  capital- 
ist, also,  I  believe,  a  Jew,  bought  up  all  the  Govern- 
ment land  in  the  delta  before  the  dam  was  built,  and 
when  the  dam  was  finished,  sold  it  at  more  than  three 
times  what  they  paid  for  it.  How  much  of  the  land 
in  the  delta  is  owned  by  Englishmen  or  other  exploit- 
ers I  do  not  know.  It  is  now  chiefly  used  to  raise  cot- 
ton, which  during  the  war  was  extremely  profitable. 
A  good  deal  of  wheat  land  has,  I  fancy,  been  sacrificed 
to  cotton. 

Egypt  used  to  export  large  quantities  of  grain;  now 
I  believe  it  has  to  import.   Why  is  this.? 

In  1879  when  I  made  the  long  and  delightful  donkey 
ride  across  the  whole  width  of  the  cultivated  land  to 
the  Temple  of  Abydos,  which  is  on  the  edge  of  the 
desert,  I  noticed  that  the  crops  in  the  middle  of  Feb- 
ruary were  already  nearly  breast  high.  Not  many 
years  ago,  since  the  dam  was  built,  at  exactly  the 
same  season  of  the  year,  they  were  not  more  than  a  foot 
high.  This  set  me  to  thinking.  The  first  year  we  were 
on  the  Nile  the  water  was  of  a  dark  chocolate  color, 
and  the  water,  if  left  standing  in  your  tub  overnight, 
would  show  quite  a  thick  deposit  of  mud  in  the  bottom 
of  the  tub.  Now  it  is  of  a  cafe-au-lait  color  and  leaves 
much  less  of  a  deposit. 

Every  one  knows  that  the  wonderful  fertility  of 


250  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

Egypt  in  the  olden  time  was  owdng  to  the  yearly  floods, 
which  spread  over  the  land  and  deposited  a  layer  of 
mud  that  acted  as  a  fertilizer;  also  the  water  that  was 
pumped  up  by  artificial  means  for  irrigation,  after  the 
flood  had  subsided,  left  its  deposit.  Now  it  stands  to 
reason  that  the  vast  lake  impounded  by  the  dam,  about 
the  size  of  the  Lake  of  Geneva,  is  constantly  depositing 
on  its  bottom  the  mud  held  in  solution,  which  like  that 
in  your  bathtub  must  amount  day  by  day  to  an  enor- 
mous quantity  lost  to  the  enriching  of  the  soil  in  the 
Nile  Valley.  As  a  matter  of  fact  the  water  that  is 
let  out  of  the  sluices  in  the  bottom  of  the  dam  is 
pale  in  color,  but  is  also  intensely  cold  so  that  I 
have  seen  quite  a  number  of  fish  floating  dead  from 
this  cause. 

The  dam  ought,  I  think,  to  be  spelled  with  an  w,  be- 
cause, owing  to  the  vast  body  of  water  constantly 
evaporating  in  the  hot  sun,  it  has  quite  changed 
the  climate  of  Assuan,  so  that  there  is  rain  where  it 
never  rained  before,  and  the  north  wind  blowing  up 
the  river  over  the  cold  water  is  sometimes  very  dis- 
agreeable, to  say  nothing  of  ruining  the  temple  of 
the  beautiful  island  of  Philse,  and  turning  out  of  their 
homes  the  Cataract  people,  the  finest  tribe  on  the 
Nile,  and  scattering  them  nobody  knows  where. 

I  offer  these  observations  for  what  they  are  worth. 
I  may  be  entirely  wrong;  but  there  are  others  who 


EGYPT  251 

think  as  I  do,  that  the  dam  was  a  gigantic  speculation 
to  put  money  into  somebody's  pocket,  and  not,  as 
pretended,  to  benefit  the  Egyptians. 

I  ought  to  have  mentioned  in  this  connection  the 
primitive  methods  of  raising  water  to  irrigate  the 
fields.  People  have  asked  why  they  do  not  use  steam 
pumps;  there  are  two  reasons,  the  people  are  poor  and 
could  not  afford  the  expense  of  the  pump  and  of  the 
coal,  which  is  very  dear  in  Egypt,  and  also,  where  it 
has  been  tried,  the  river  when  in  flood  cuts  in  around 
the  foundations  and  destroys  the  whole  thing.  Some 
of  the  sugar  factories  have  them,  but  they  are  obliged 
to  revet  the  bank  with  stone  for  a  long  distance  and 
at  great  expense. 

So  the  natives  stick  to  the  old  ways ;  the  shadoof, 
where  the  water  is  lifted  from  one  level  to  another  by 
hand,  with  leather  buckets  on  a  sweep  with  a  coun- 
terweight of  clay,  very  much  like  an  old  New  England 
well-sweep.  The  men  who  work  these  shadoofs  are 
wonderfully  picturesque,  with  only  a  loincloth  about 
them  and  their  brown  skins  glistening  like  bronze.  It 
is  very  fatiguing  work,  however,  and  is  done  in  relays. 

The  sakieh  is  worked  by  oxen,  or  sometimes  by  a 
camel  and  a  donkey,  blindfolded  so  as  not  to  get 
dizzy  and  going  round  and  round  attached  to  two 
cog-wheels  that  hoist  an  endless  string  of  buckets  from 
a  well.   These  are  mostly  used  back  from  the  river. 


252  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

They  give  forth  a  most  dismal  creaking,  and,  if 
worked  all  night,  are  most  undesirable  neighbors. 

As  I  was  anxious  to  see  the  Suez  Canal,  we  caught 
a  P.  &  O.  steamer  at  Suez  and  traversed  the  whole 
canal.  It  was  hardly  worth  while,  however,  as  it 
proved  a  very  stupid  trip;  nothing  but  a  ditch  with 
desert  on  either  hand.  We  stopped  at  Port  Said  to 
coal,  which  recalls  to  me  that  a  few  years  later  we 
were  also  there  for  coaling  when  an  Italian  troop-ship 
came  In  crammed  with  soldiers  on  their  way  to  fight 
the  Abysslnlans.  A  number  of  oflficers  came  ashore  in 
immaculate  uniforms  with  white  helmets  and  each 
carrying  a  small  fan.  The  Idea  of  going  to  fight  the 
Abysslnlans  with  fans  struck  me  as  very  comical. 
Poor  devils,  very  few  of  them  ever  returned  to  Italy 
after  the  massacre  of  Massowah,  but  perhaps  the 
Abyssinian  belles  rejoiced  In  the  fans. 

On  the  steamer  was  an  English  woman,  returning 
from  India  all  alone.  In  a  dying  condition.  She  had 
relatives  at  Malta  waiting  for  her,  but  unfortunately 
she  died  the  day  before  we  reached  there,  and  was  Im- 
mediately burled  at  sea.  It  seemed  to  me  very  brutal 
that  her  body  could  not  have  been  kept  a  few  hours, 
and  delivered  to  her  relatives,  to  be  given  a  Chris- 
tian burial  on  land,  but  the  captain  explained  that 
if  he  arrived  in  port  with  a  dead  body  there  might 


EGYPT  253 

be  complications,  and  he  might  be  detained  a  day 
or  so. 

We  had  a  few  hours  on  shore  at  Malta,  another 
of  England's  plums,  but  thought  it  a  rather  dreary 
place,  though  with  a  magnificent  harbor.  From  there 
we  went  on  to  Gibraltar,  a  very  large  English  plum, 
where  we  landed  to  go  up  through  Spain.  We  stayed 
there  several  days,  seeing  a  review  and  sham  battle  of 
the  "  Black  Watch  "  and  visiting  the  celebrated  gal- 
leries cut  in  the  rock  and  now  of  no  use  for  defensive 
purposes. 

We  were  very  much  tempted  to  join  two  English- 
men in  a  trip  to  Ronda  on  horseback;  but  concluded 
wisely  that  it  would  be  too  hard  an  excursion  with  bad 
roads  and  bad  inns.  We  had  been  told  that  Ronda 
was  a  wonderfully  picturesque  town  situated  in  a 
ravine.  A  number  of  years  later  we  went  there  by  rail, 
and  found  that  the  ravine  was  in  the  town  and  not  the 
town  in  the  ravine.  The  town  was  not  very  interest- 
ing, situated  on  a  plateau,  with  the  ravine  dividing  it 
in  two,  with  a  splendid  arch  of  a  bridge  connecting 
the  two  parts. 

We  found  that  in  order  to  get  to  Seville  we  should 
have  to  go  to  Cadiz,  either  by  diligence  from  Alge- 
ciras,  or  by  a  small  coasting  steamer.  We  chose  the 
latter  as  the  lesser  of  the  two  evils,  but  it  was  pretty 
bad. 


254  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

Cadiz  is  a  wonderfully  bright  and  clean-looking 
city,  with  its  shining  whitewashed  walls,  its  gay  har- 
bor, and  its  inviting  patios. 

We  went  to  Seville  by  rail  in  time  for  Easter  week 
and  the  church  processions.  We  arrived  there  late  in 
the  evening  only  to  find  the  hotel  we  had  written  to 
could  not  take  us  in,  but  sent  us  forth  with  a  man  to 
find  lodgings  outside.  The  streets  were  dark  and  badly 
lighted,  and  rather  forbidding.  We  were  shown  first  a 
room  beneath  the  sidewalk,  which  we  promptly  refused. 
Then  we  were  taken  to  the  house  of  a  dressmaker,  who 
kindly  gave  up  her  own  nicely  furnished  room  on  the 
first  floor.  I  think  the  woman  had  already  retired  to 
bed,  as  she  appeared  after  some  delay  in  a  dressing- 
gown,  and  we  had  to  wait  some  time  for  the  bed  to 
be  made  up  afresh. 

The  next  morning,  when  we  went  forth  to  get  our 
breakfast  at  the  hotel,  we  found  the  hallway  filled 
with  a  half-dozen  smiling  and  quite  pretty  sewing 
girls,  hard  at  work,  each  with  a  flower  behind  her  ear 
and  her  hair  elaborately  arranged.  They  made  a 
pretty  sight,  and  I  was  glad  that  we  could  not  get  into 
the  hotel  except  for  meals,  as  their  smiling  faces 
greeted  us  as  we  passed  in  and  out.  With  the  help  of 
a  valet-de-place  we  got  very  good  seats  for  the  proces- 
sions which  took  up  the  whole  of  Holy  Week.  They 
were  very  interesting;  but  after  a  time  tedious,  as  the 


EGYPT  2SS 

images  on  platforms  from  the  different  churches  are 
carried  on  the  backs  of  men  whose  plebeian  trousers 
and  shabby  shoes,  protruding  from  beneath  the  dra- 
peries, do  not  harmonize  very  well  with  the  gorgeous 
images  of  saints,  and  who  have  to  stop  and  rest  every 
hundred  yards  or  so,  as  some  of  the  images  must  be 
very  heavy. 

We  also  saw  the  rending  of  the  veil  in  the  cathedral 
on  Easter  morning  with  much  noise  of  exploding  gun- 
powder. The  cathedral  at  Seville  has  a  vast,  dimly 
lighted  interior,  and  is  very  impressive,  but  the  exte- 
rior is  disappointing.  Of  course  the  gem  of  Seville  is 
the  Giralda  Tower,  with  its  beautiful  fretwork,  feebly 
imitated  in  the  Madison  Square  Garden  Tower.  I 
suppose  the  expense  prevented  an  exact  copy. 

On  Easter  afternoon  with  all  the  world  we  went  to 
the  bull-fight,  which  is  a  great  affair  as  being  the  first 
after  Lent.  The  pageant  of  the  bull-fighters'  entry 
into  the  ring,  and  the  demand  of  the  matador  for  the 
key  to  the  bull-pens  were  very  medieval  and  fine.  The 
brilliant  costumes  of  the  bull-fighters,  the  bright  sun- 
shine, the  gay  crowds,  which  included  many  women, 
made  a  scene  never  to  be  forgotten,  but  when  the 
first  bull  was  let  out  and  the  slaughter  of  the  horses 
began,  I  was  filled  with  disgust.  These  poor  brutes, 
only  ready  for  the  knackers,  some  of  which  could 
hardly  stand  up,  were  blindfolded  and  literally  stood 


256  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

up  broadside  to  the  bull,  who  did  not  seem  over- 
anxious to  charge  them,  recognizing,  it  seemed,  that 
it  was  poor  sport  to  rip  up  a  helpless  fellow-animal. 
There  was  one  poor  white  horse,  whose  entrails  were 
hanging  out,  that  was  taken  out,  sewed  up,  and 
brought  in  twice  again. 

I  imagine  that  in  the  olden  time,  when  the  picadors 
were  mounted  on  good  horses  and  were  expected  to 
hold  off  the  bull  with  their  lances,  there  might  have 
been  some  sport  in  It.  Now  the  picadors  are  so  band- 
aged about  the  legs,  to  escape  injury,  that  they  have 
to  be  lifted  on  their  horses. 

We  saw  three  bulls  killed,  and  then  left.  I  wish 
never  to  see  another  bull-fight  unless  the  odds  are 
more  even.  Our  sympathies  were  entirely  with  the 
bull,  which  seemed  to  have  absolutely  no  chance.  I 
should  have  liked  to  see  some  of  his  persecutors 
chucked  over  the  barriers,  where  they  constantly  took 
shelter,  like  rabbits  running  to  their  burrows. 

After  visiting  the  annual  fair  on  the  river-bank  on 
the  following  day,  where  all  the  swells  of  Seville  have 
tents  in  which  they  receive  their  friends  and  dance, 
all  dressed  in  their  old  national  costumes,  the  common 
people  walking  up  and  down  and  looking  at  them,  we 
were  glad  to  leave  the  noise  and  heat  of  Seville  for  the 
cool  shades  of  the  Alhambra  with  the  perpetual  sound 
of  plashing  or  running  water  in  our  ears. 


EGYPT  257 

What  an  enchanting  spot!  We  had  arranged  to 
spend  three  days  there,  and  stayed  three  weeks;  we 
simply  could  not  get  away.  There  was  much  to 
sketch  and  I  was  busy  morning  and  afternoon.  The 
pink  walls  of  the  old  fortress  in  contrast  to  the  fresh 
spring  green  of  the  foliage  and  the  beautiful  color  of 
the  diiferent  courts  of  the  Alhambra  itself,  with  all 
the  delicate  tracery  of  Arab  art,  was  too  much  for  an 
artist  to  resist. 

Then  there  was  the  picturesque  figure  of  the  King 
of  the  Gipsies,  who  insisted  he  was  Fortuny's  model, 
that  had  to  be  painted.  I  began  a  picture  of  him  in  a 
gorgeous  costume,  when  to  my  horror  he  appeared  the 
next  day  in  a  shabby  old  suit,  and  said  he  had  sold 
the  previous  costume  to  a  Russian  artist.  Whether 
he  had  or  not,  I  was  not  going  to  be  treated  in  that 
way  a  second  time,  so  I  told  him  to  go  down  into 
Granada  and  buy  for  me  the  best  costume  he  could 
find.  He  returned  next  day  with  a  beautiful  costume, 
a  leather  jacket  with  red  and  blue  cloth  let  in  in 
places,  a  rather  shabby  pair  of  blue  knee  breeches 
with  silver  buttons  down  the  side,  a  bright  red  sash, 
and,  best  of  all,  a  pair  of  finely  stamped  Cordovan 
leather  leggings,  not  to  mention  a  broad-brimmed 
Spanish  hat  and  a  handkerchief  tied  round  his  head, 
and  all,  if  I  remember  right,  for  twenty-five  francs, 
or  its  equivalent. 


258  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

Some  of  the  best  sketches  I  ever  made  I  made  In 
the  Alhambra,  but  I  am  sorry  to  say  that,  going  back 
there  in  the  spring  of  19 14, 1  found  much  of  the  glam- 
our gone.  The  restorer  had  been  at  work  and  fixed 
it  up  with  new  work  that  did  not  harmonize  with  the 
old,  and  had  scraped  oif  many  of  the  vines  and  lichens 
that  give  charm  to  old  ruins. 

From  Granada  we  went  to  Madrid,  stopping  at 
Cordova  on  the  way,  to  see  the  old  mosque  with  its 
myriad  columns,  and  the  fine  Roman  bridge.  Madrid 
we  did  not  like  much;  it  is  a  dreary  city,  either  too 
cold  and  rainy  or  too  hot  and  dusty,  and  always  too 
windy. 

We  went  to  Toledo  for  a  day  and  night.  Toledo  is 
gloomy,  but  very  interesting  and  very  picturesquely 
situated,  with  its  magnificent  bridge.  On  the  way  back 
to  Madrid,  the  train  was  three  hours  late,  and  we  spent 
the  time  on  the  station  platform,  cold  and  hungry,  as 
there  was  nothing  to  eat  and  we  had  expected  to  get 
back  in  time  for  dinner.  On  our  way  to  France,  we 
had  intended  stopping  at  Burgos,  but  found  that  we 
should  arrive  at  two  in  the  morning  and  could  not 
leave  till  two  the  next  morning.  I  could  stand  one 
morning  getting  up  at  that  unearthly  hour,  but  two 
was  too  much,  so  we  went  directly  through  to  Biarritz 
and  then  to  Paris.  After  closing  up  our  afi'airs  there, 
packing  my  pictures  left  in  the  studio,  and  selling  the 


EGYPT  259 

things  we  did  not  want  to  take  to  America,  we  crossed 
to  England.  We  made  one  or  two  visits  to  friends  in 
the  country  and  then  took  a  trip  through  Scotland. 
It  happened  to  be  a  very  cold  and  wet  summer  and 
Scotland  was  too  cold  for  much  enjoyment.  I  was 
disappointed  in  the  Trossachs.  There  are  plenty  of 
equally  beautiful  spots  In  New  England,  but  no  Scott 
to  write  about  them.  Edinburgh  is  very  picturesque, 
and  all  the  romance  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots  adds 
so  much  to  one's  Interest.  It  is  these  romances  of  the 
Old  World  that  Americans  enjoy  so  much. 

I  think  we  liked  Stirling  Castle  best  of  all,  and  I  had 
the  energy  to  get  up  at  an  early  hour  to  make  a  sketch 
of  it  before  our  train  left  at  eleven.  On  the  way  to 
Oban  we  had  to  go  part-way  by  stage-coach.  It  was 
raining  hard  and  we  could  get  seatsonly  with  the  guard, 
behind.  There  we  sat  with  our  umbrellas  up  and  a 
tarpaulin  across  our  laps.  In  which  every  once  in  a 
while  the  rain  made  such  a  lake  that  the  water  had 
to  be  shaken  out.  Our  luggage  In  the  meantime  rested 
on  the  top  of  the  coach  without  anything  over  it. 
I  remonstrated,  but  the  guard  said  they  never  covered 
the  luggage,  and  this  in  a  land  where  it  rains  most  of 
the  time!  The  thick  English  leather  portmanteaus 
may  be  able  to  stand  it,  but  American  trunks  cannot, 
and  we  found  our  clothes  quite  wet  when  we  reached 
Oban.  When  It  did  not  rain,  we  made  an  excursion  to 


26o  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

the  islands  so  associated  with  Black's  novels  and  up 
the  Caledonian  Canal  and  back.  We  needed  all  our 
winter  clothes  at  Oban,  and  were  glad  when  the  time 
came  to  take  our  departure  by  boat  to  Glasgow, 
and  so  to  Liverpool  and  home. 


CHAPTER  XIII 
PROFESSIONAL  FORTUNES 

On  my  return  from  Europe  I  at  last  began  to  feel  that 
I  was  getting  a  firm  grasp  on  my  technique,  which  I 
knew  was  my  weak  point.  In  spite  of  this,  when  I  had 
an  exhibition  of  some  of  my  work,  it  was  not  a  success. 
I  got  no  credit  for  some  of  the  best  heads,  as  people 
seemed  to  assume  that  they  were  only  copies  of  Cou- 
ture or  too  much  in  his  style. 

When  Duveneck  had  brought  home  his  wonderfully 
cleverwork from  Munich, — 'in  1865,!  think,  —  every- 
body went  into  raptures  over  it,  and  not  without  rea- 
son, and  did  not  lay  it  to  its  being  a  mere  copy  of  his 
master's  style;  perhaps  partly  because  people  were 
not  so  familiar  with  the  Munich  school.  A  pupil  neces- 
sarily reflects  many  of  the  mannerisms  of  his  master 
till  he  has  worked  out  his  own  style. 

I  may  say  that  Duveneck,  when  he  changed  his 
style  to  one  more  in  the  French  manner,  and  not  so 
brown  and  bituminous,  was  not  so  successful.  He 
seemed  to  fall  between  two  stools.  Some  of  Paris  Bor- 
done's  pictures  look  like  Titian's,  but  nobody  thinks 
the  less  of  them  on  that  account. 

However,  in  the  next  two  or  three  years  I  found  I 


262  RANDOM  MEMORIES 

had  increased  my  reputation  considerably;  my  pic- 
tures were  accepted,  and  well  hung  in  exhibitions  in 
Boston  and  New  York.  I  was  elected  Vice-President 
of  the  Boston  Art  Club,  and  had  charge  of  the  exhi- 
bitions held  there,  thereby,  of  course,  acquiring  the 
enmity  of  several  artists  who  thought  they  had  not 
been  treated  as  well  as  they  deserved.  Such  is  the  re- 
sult of  well-doing! 

I  began  to  feel  that  success  was  in  sight.  An  elderly 
Frenchman  who  had  seen  some  of  my  pictures  said  to 
my  father,  just  before  his  death,  that "  I  had  a  future," 
to  which  my  father  replied,  "How  fortunate  to  have 
a  future!  you  and  I  are  too  old  to  have  a  future." 

Alas!  there  was  no  future;  the  Fates  decided  other- 
wise. 

In  justice  to  myself  I  must  add  that  when  I  parted 
with  Couture  in  Paris,  he  expressed  himself  as  so  much 
pleased  with  my  work  that  he  wanted  me  to  establish 
a  school  in  America  to  carry  out  his  ideas  of  what  he 
called  the  "grand  manner,"  and  to  send  the  advanced 
pupils  out  to  him  to  be  finished.  Unfortunately,  he 
died  shortly  afterwards,  and  I  found  that  the  artistic 
taste  of  America,  which  formerly  admired  his  work, 
had  changed,  and  Americans  had  become  followers  of 
Sargent  or  the  Impressionists. 

My  association  with  Couture  was  very  close,  and  I 
may  fairly  say  that  I  was  his  favorite  pupil  in  the  last 


ERNEST  W.  LONGFELLOW 


PROFESSIONAL  FORTUNES  263 

days  of  his  life.  Manet,  although  a  former  pupil  of 
his,  he  did  not  admire;  he  had  none  of  his  style  in 
drawing,  and  his  vulgarity  and  realism  repelled  him. 

Manet,  it  seems  to  me,  is  largely  responsible  for 
the  vulgarity  and  coarseness  of  modern  art.  He  started 
the  cult  of  the  ugly.  Compare  his  vulgar  "Olym- 
pia,"  so  much  admired  by  artists  of  the  present  day, 
with  Titian's  Venus:  the  one  only  an  unidealized  rep- 
resentation of  a  common  courtesan,  cold  in  color,  but 
strong  If  you  like;  the  other  the  idealization  of  a  beau- 
tiful nude  woman,  the  flesh  palpitating  with  life,  and 
wonderful  In  color.  And  see  Manet's  treatment  of  a 
subject  similar  to  one  treated  byGIorglone  —  "The 
Pastoral"  —  of  two  men  and  a  nude  woman  sitting 
together  out  of  doors :  Glorgione's  so  beautiful  In  color 
and  so  charming  that  the  nude  does  not  seem  Incon- 
gruous, while  Manet's  "Le  Dejeuner  sur  I'Herbe," 
with  the  men  In  modern  costume  and  the  vulgar 
nude,  is  simply  repulsive. 

On  March  24,  1882,  my  father  died  and  a  great 
light  seemed  to  have  gone  out  of  my  life.  For  years 
I  could  not  enter  his  study  without  a  pang  —  the 
gentle  presence  had  passed  away,  the  affectionate 
greeting  was  no  longer  to  be  mine. 

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